GEORGE  WASHINGTON  AND  MARTHA  CURTIS. 

From  a  drawing  by  Clara  L.   i'-urcl.  (Page  34) 


OO<XXX>OOOOOOOOOOOOO<>g 

Of 

THREADS  OF  GREY 
AND  GOLD 


BY 

MYRTLE    REED 

Author  of 

Lavender  and  Old  Lace 

The   Master's  Violin 

Old  Rose  and  Silver 

A  Weaver  of  Dreams 

Flower  of  the  Dusk 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Jack  O'Lantern 

The  Shadow  of  Victory 

Etc. 


New  York 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

Publishers 


QOCOOOOOQOOOOQOQO 


COPYRIGHT,  1902 

BY 
MYRTLE   REED 


BY  MYRTLE  REED: 

A  Weaver  of  Dreams  Sonnets  to  a  Lover 

Old  Rose  and  Silver  Master  of  the  Vineyard 

Lavender  and  Old  Lace  Flower  of  the  Dusk 

The  Master's  Violin  At  the  Sign  of  the  Jack-o'-Lantern 

Love  Letters  of  a  Musician  A  Spinner  in  the  Sun 

The  Spinster  Book  Later  Love  Letters  of  a  Musician 

The  Shadow  of  Victory  Love  Affairs  of  Literary  Men 

Myrtle  Reed  Year  Book 


This  edition  is  issued  under  arrangement  with  the  publishers 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


To  THE  READERS  OF 
THE  ROMANCES  OP  MYRTLE  REED. 

— A  world-wide  circle  comprising  probably  not  less 
than  two  million  sympathetic  admirers — 

This  volume,  which  presents  some  of  the  writer's  most 
typical  utterances — utterances  characterised  by  the 
combination  of  wisdom,  humour,  and  sentiment  that 
belongs  to  all  the  writings  of  the  gifted  author, 

IS  DEDICATED  BY 

THE  EDITOR. 

CHICAGO, 
January, 


ill 


2228404 


IN  MEMORY  OP 
A  WEAVER  OP  DREAMS. 

A  tribute  to  Myrtle  Reed  in  recognition  of  her  beautiful  and 
valuable  contributions  to  English  literature. 

AS  the  spinner  of  silk  weaves  his  sunbeams  of  gold, 
Blending  sunset  and  dawn  in  its  silvery  fold, 
So  she  wove  in  the  woof  of  her  wonderful  words 
The  soft  shimmer  of  sunshine  and  music  of  birds. 
With  the  radiance  of  moonlight  and  perfume  of  flowers, 
She  lent  charm  to  the  springtime  and  gladdened  the 
hours. 

She  spoke  cheer  to  the  suffering,  joy  to  the  sad; 
She  gave  rest  to  the  weary,  made  the  sorrowful  glad. 
The  sweet  touch  of  her  sympathy  soothed  every  pain, 
And  her  words  in  the  drouth  were  like  showers  of  rain. 
For  she  lovingly  poured  out  her  blessings  in  streams 
As  a  fountain  of  waters — a  weaver  of  dreams. 

Her  bright  smiles  were  bejewelled,  her  tears  were  em- 
pearled, 

And  her  thoughts  were  as  stars  giving  light  to  the  world; 
Her  fond  dreams  were  the  gems  that  were  woven  in  gold, 
And  the  fabric  she  wrought  was  of  value  untold. 
Every  colour  of  beauty  was  radiantly  bright, 
Blending  faith,  hope,  and  love  in  its  opaline  light. 

And  she  wove  in  her  woof  the  great  wealth  of  her  heart, 
For  the  cord  of  her  life  gave  the  life  to  each  part; 
And  the  beauty  she  wrought,  which  gave  life  to  the 

whole, 

Was  her  spirit  made  real — she  gave  of  her  soul. 
So  the  World  built  a  temple — a  glorious  shrine — 
A  Taj  Mahal  of  love  to  the  woman  divine. 

ADDISON  BLAKELY. 


Editorial  mote 

THE  Editor  desires  to  make  grateful 
acknowledgment  to  the  editors  and 
publishers  of  the  several  periodicals  in 
which  the  papers  contained  in  this  volume 
were  first  brought  into  print,  for  their 
friendly  courtesy  in  permitting  the  collec- 
tion of  these  papers  for  preservation  in 
book  form. 

CHICAGO, 
January,  1913. 


Contents 

PAGE 

How  THE  WORLD  WATCHES  THE  NEW 

YEAR  COME  IN  .         .        .        .        3 

THE  Two  YEARS.     (Poem)         .         .      23 

THE    COURTSHIP    OF    GEORGE 

WASHINGTON       ....      26 

THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW.     (Poem)     .      44 

THE  LOVE  STORY  OF  "THE  SAGE  OF 

MONTICELLO  "     .        .        .        .46 

COLUMBIA.     (Poem)  ....  59 

STORY  OF  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE  .        .  60 

THE  SEA  VOICE.    (Poem)  ...  75 

MYSTERY  OF  RANDOLPH'S  COURTSHIP  77 

How   PRESIDENT   JACKSON  WON  His 

WIFE 91 

THE  BACHELOR  PRESIDENT'S  LOYALTY 

TO  A  MEMORY    ....     105 

DECORATION  DAY.    (Poem)        .        .118 
ix 


x  Contents 

PAGE 

ROMANCE  OF  LINCOLN'S  LIFE  .  ..119 
SILENT  THANKSGIVING.  (Poem)  .  135 
IN  THE  FLASH  OF  A  JEWEL  .  .  137 
THE  COMING  OF  MY  SHIP.  (Poem)  .  156 
ROMANCE  AND  THE  POSTMAN  .  .158 
A  SUMMER  REVERIE.  (Poem)  .  .171 

A  VIGNETTE 172 

MEDITATION.     (Poem)        .        .        .175 


TRANSITION.  (Poem)  .  .  .187 
THE  SUPERIORITY  OF  MAN  .  .189 
THE  YEAR  OF  MY  HEART.  (Poem)  .  196 
THE  AVERAGE  MAN  ....  197 
THE  BOOK  OF  LOVE.  (Poem)  .  .  202 
THE  IDEAL  MAN  ....  204 
GOOD-NIGHT,  SWEETHEART.  (Poem) '.  209 
THE  IDEAL  WOMAN  .  .  .  .  .211 
SHE  Is  NOT  FAIR.  (Poem)  "  .  .  220 
THE  FIN-DE  SIECLE  WOMAN  .  .  232 


Contents  xi 

PAGE 

THE  MOON  MAIDEN.     (Poem)    .         .  229 

HER  SON'S  WIFE       ....  230 

A  LULLABY.     (Poem)         .         .         .  247 

THE  DRESSING-SACK  HABIT       .        .  248 

IN  THE  MEADOW.     (Poem)         .         .  259 

ONE     WOMAN'S     SOLUTION     OF    THE 

SERVANT  PROBLEM      .         .         .  260 

To  A  VIOLIN.     (Poem)       .         .         .  283 

THE  OLD  MAID         ....  284 

THE  SPINSTER'S  RUBAIYAT.    (Poem)  .  291 

THE  RIGHTS  OF  DOGS        .        .        .  293 

TWILIGHT.     (Poem)    ....  298 

WOMEN'S  CLOTHES  IN  MEN'S  BOOKS  .  299 

MAIDENS  OF  THE  SEA.     (Poem)          .  320 

TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY       .  321 

To  DOROTHY.     (Poem)       .         .         .  333 

WRITING  A  BOOK      .         .        .        .  334 

THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  GUN.     (Poem)  355 

QUAINT  OLD  CHRISTMAS  CUSTOMS       .  357 

CONSECRATION.     (Poem)     .         .         ,  371 


1>ow  tbe  TKHorlfc  Hdatcbes  the 
IRew  l?ear  Come  In 


Ibow  tbe  mnorlb  Matdbee  tfoe- 
flew  year  dome  In 

HPHE  proverbial  "good  resolutions"  of 
the  first  of  January  which  are  usually 
forgotten  the  next  day,  the  watch  services 
in  the  churches,  and  the  tin  horns  in  the 
city  streets,  are  about  the  only  formali- 
ties connected  with  the  American  New 
Year.  The  Pilgrim  fathers  took  no  note 
of  the  day,  save  in  this  prosaic  record: 
"We  went  to  work  betimes";  but  one 
Judge  Sewall  writes  with  no  small  pride 
of  the  blast  of  trumpets  which  was  sounded 
under  his  window,  on  the  morning  of 
January  1st,  1697. 

He  celebrated  the  opening  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  with  a  very  bad  poem 
which  he  wrote  himself,  and  he  hired  the 
bellman  to  recite  the  poem  loudly  through 
the  streets  of  the  town  of  Boston;  but 

3 


4          Sfflatcijtng  tfje  J^eto  gear  3to 

happily  for  a  public,  even  now  too  much 
wearied  with  minor  poets,  the  custom 
did  not  become  general. 

In  Scotland  and  the  North  of  England 
the  New  Year  festivities  are  of  great 
importance.  Weeks  before  hand,  the 
village  boys,  with  great  secrecy,  meet  in 
out  of  the  way  places  and  rehearse  their 
favourite  songs  and  ballads.  As  the  time 
draws  near,  they  don  improvised  masks 
and  go  about  from  door  to  door,  singing 
and  cutting  many  quaint  capers.  The 
thirty-first  of  December  is  called  "Hog- 
manay," and  the  children  are  told  that 
if  they  go  to  the  corner,  they  will  see  a  man 
with  as  many  eyes  as  the  year  has  days. 
The  children  of  the  poorer  classes  go  from 
house  to  house  in  the  better  districts,  with 
a  large  pocket  fastened  to  their  dresses,  or 
a  large  shawl  with  a  fold  in  front. 

Each  one  receives  an  oaten  cake,  a 
piece  of  cheese,  or  sometimes  a  sweet  cake, 
and  goes  home  at  night  heavily  laden 
with  a  good  supply  of  homely  New  Year 
cheer  for  the  rest  of  the  family. 


tfjc  J^eto  gear  3to 


The  Scottish  elders  celebrate  the  day 
with  a  supper  party,  and  as  the  clock  strikes 
twelve,  friend  greets  friend  and  wishes  him 
"a  gude  New  Year  and  mony  o'  them." 

Then  with  great  formality  the  door  is 
unbarred  to  let  the  Old  Year  out  and  the 
New  Year  in,  while  all  the  guests  sally 
forth  into  the  streets  to  "first  foot" 
their  acquaintances. 

The  "first  foot"  is  the  first  person  to 
enter  a  house  after  midnight  of  December 
3  1  st.  If  he  is  a  dark  man,  it  is  considered 
an  omen  of  good  fortune.  Women  gener- 
ally are  thought  to  bring  ill  luck,  and  in 
some  parts  of  England  a  light-haired  man, 
or  a  light-haired,  flat-footed  man  is  pre- 
ferred. In  Durham,  this  person  must 
bring  a  piece  of  coal,  a  piece  of  iron, 
and  a  bottle  of  whiskey.  He  gives  a 
glass  of  whiskey  to  each  man  and  kisses 
each  woman. 

In  Edinburgh,  a  great  crowd  gathers 
around  the  church  in  Hunter  Square  and 
anxiously  watches  the  clock.  There  is 
absolute  silence  from  the  first  stroke  of 


383atc&tng  tfje  jfreto  pear  3n 


twelve  until  the  last,  then  the  elders  go 
to  bed,  but  the  young  folks  have  other 
business  on  hand.  Each  girl  expects  the 
"first  foot"  from  her  sweetheart  and 
there  is  occasionally  much  stratagem 
displayed  in  outwitting  him  and  arranging 
to  have  some  grandmother  or  serving 
maid  open  the  door  for  him. 

During  the  last  century,  all  work  was 
laid  aside  on  the  afternoon  of  the  thirty- 
first,  and  the  men  of  the  hamlet  went  to 
the  woods  and  brought  home  a  lot  of 
juniper  bushes.  Each  household  also 
procured  a  pitcher  of  water  from  "the 
dead  and  living  ford,  "  meaning  a  ford  in 
the  river  by  which  passengers  and  funerals 
crossed.  This  was  brought  in  perfect 
silence  and  was  not  allowed  to  touch  the 
ground  in  its  progress  as  contact  with 
the  earth  would  have  destroyed  the  charm. 

The  next  morning,  there  were  rites  to 
protect  the  household  against  witchcraft, 
the  evil  eye,  and  other  machinations  of 
his  satanic  majesty.  The  father  rose 
first,  and,  taking  the  charmed  water  and 


®aatc!)tng  tfje  jfreto  gear  3n  7 

a  brush,  treated  the  whole  family  to  a 
generous  sprinkling,  which  was  usually 
acknowledged  with  anything  but  gratitude. 

Then  all  the  doors  and  windows  were 
closed,  and  the  juniper  boughs  put  on 
the  fire.  When  the  smoke  reached  a 
suffocating  point,  the  fresh  air  was  ad- 
mitted. The  cattle  were  fumigated  in 
the  same  way  and  the  painful  solemnities 
of  the  morning  were  over. 

The  Scots  on  the  first  of  the  year 
consult  the  Bible  before  breakfast.  They 
open  it  at  random  and  lay  a  finger  on  a 
verse  which  is  supposed  to  be,  in  some 
way,  an  augury  for  the  coming  year. 
If  a  lamp  or  a  candle  is  taken  out  of  the 
house  on  that  day,  some  one  will  die 
during  the  year,  and  on  New  Year's  day 
a  Scotchman  will  neither  lend,  borrow; 
nor  give  anything  whatsoever  out  of  his 
house,  for  fear  his  luck  may  go  with  it, 
and  for  the  same  reason  the  floor  must  not 
be  swept.  Even  ashes  or  dirty  water  must 
not  be  thrown  out  until  the  next  day,  and 
if  the  fire  goes  out  it  is  a  sign  of  death. 


8  Kaatdjing  flje  J^eto  gear  3n 

The  ancient  Drtdds  distributed  among 
the  early  Britons  branches  of  the  sacred 
mistletoe,  which  had  been  cut  with  solemn 
ceremony  in  the  night  from  the  oak  trees 
in  a  forest  that  had  been  dedicated  to 
the  gods. 

Among  the  ancient  Saxons,  the  New 
Year  was  ushered  in  with  friendly  gifts, 
and  all  fighting  ceased  for  three  days. 

In  Banffshire  the  peat  fires  are  covered 
with  ashes  and  smoothed  down.  In  the 
morning  they  are  examined  closely,  and 
if  anything  resembling  a  human  foot- 
print is  found  in  the  ashes,  it  is  taken  as 
an  omen.  If  the  footprint  points  towards 
the  door,  one  of  the  family  will  die  or  leave 
home  during  the  year.  If  they  point  in- 
ward, a  child  will  be  born  within  the  year. 

In  some  parts  of  rural  England,  the 
village  maidens  go  from  door  to  door  with 
a  bowl  of  wassail,  made  of  ale,  roasted 
apples,  squares  of  toast,  nutmeg,  and 
sugar.  The  bowl  is  elaborately  decorated 
with  evergreen  and  ribbons,  and  as  they 
go  they  sing : 


KSatcijtng  tfjc  Jfteto  Dear  3in  9 

"Wassail,  wassail  to  our  town, 
The  cup  is  white  and  the  ale  is  brown, 
The  cup  is  made  of  the  ashen  tree, 
And  so  is  the  ale  of  the  good  barley. 

"Little  maid,  little  maid,  turn  the  pin, 
Open  the  door  and  let  us  in; 
God  be  there,  God  be  here; 
I  wish  you  all  a  Happy  New  Year." 

In  Yorkshire,  the  young  men  assemble 
at  midnight  on  the  thirty-first,  blacken 
their  faces,  disguise  themselves  in  other 
ways,  then  pass  through  the  village  with 
pieces  of  chalk.  They  write  the  date  of 
the  New  Year  on  gates,  doors,  shutters, 
and  wagons.  It  is  considered  lucky  to 
have  one's  property  so  marked  and  the 
revellers  are  never  disturbed. 

On  New  Year's  Day,  Henry  VI  received 
gifts  of  jewels,  geese,  turkeys,  hens,  and 
sweetmeats.  "Good  Queen  Bess"  was 
fairly  overwhelmed  with  tokens  of  affec- 
tion from  her  subjects.  One  New  Year's 
morning,  she  was  presented  with  caskets 
studded  with  gems,  necklaces,  bracelets, 
gowns,  mantles,  mirrors,  fans,  and  a 


io         asiatcfjing  tfje  Jleto  gear  3to 

wonderful  pair  of  black  silk  stockings, 
which  pleased  her  so  much  that  she  never 
afterward  wore  any  other  kind. 

Among  the  Romans,  after  the  reforma- 
tion of  the  calendar,  the  first  day,  and 
even  the  whole  month,  was  dedicated  to 
the  worship  of  the  god  Janus.  He  was 
represented  as  having  two  faces,  and 
looking  two  ways — into  the  past  and  into 
the  future.  In  January  they  offered  sac- 
rifices to  Janus  upon  two  altars,  and  on 
the  first  day  of  the  month  they  were  care- 
ful to  regulate  their  speech  and  conduct, 
thinking  it  an  augury  for  the  coming  year. 

New  Year's  gifts  and  cards  originated 
in  Rome,  and  there  is  a  record  of  an  amus- 
ing lawsuit  which  grew  out  of  the  custom. 
A  poet  was  commissioned  by  a  Roman 
pastry-cook  to  write  the  mottoes  for  the 
New  Year  day  bonbons.  He  agreed  to 
supply  five  hundred  couplets  for  six  ses- 
terces, and  though  the  poor  poet  toiled 
faithfully  and  the  mottoes  were  used,  the 
money  was  not  forthcoming.  He  sued 
the  pastry-cook,  and  got  a  verdict,  but 


3Uatrf)tng  tfje  ^eto  gear  3fn          11 

the  cook  regarded  himself  as  the  injured 
party.  Crackers  were  not  then  invented, 
but  we  still  have  the  mottoes — those 
queer  heart-shaped  things  which  were 
the  delight  of  our  school-days. 

The  Persians  remember  the  day  with 
gifts  of  eggs — literally  a  "lay  out!" 

In  rural  Russia,  the  day  begins  as  a 
children's  holiday.  The  village  boys  get 
up  at  sunrise  and  fill  their  pockets  with 
peas  and  wheat.  They  go  from  house  to 
house  and  as  the  doors  are  never  locked, 
entrance  is  easy.  They  throw  the  peas 
upon  their  enemies  and  sprinkle  the  wheat 
softly  upon  their  sleeping  friends. 

After  breakfast,  the  finest  horse  in  the 
little  town  is  decorated  with  evergreens 
and  berries  and  led  to  the  house  of  the 
greatest  nobleman,  followed  by  the  pea 
and  wheat  shooters  of  the  early  morning. 
The  lord  admits  both  horse  and  people 
to  his  house,  where  the  whole  family  is 
gathered,  and  the  children  of  his  household 
make  presents  of  small  pieces  of  silver 
money  to  those  who  come  with  the  horse. 


12         SHatcfjmg  tfje  jBLeto  fiear  Jin 

This  is  the  greeting  of  the  peasants  to 
their  lord  and  master. 

Next  comes  a  procession  of  domestic 
animals,  an  ox,  cow,  goat,  and  pig,  all 
decorated  with  evergreens  and  berries. 
These  do  not  enter  the  house  but  pass 
slowly  up  and  down  outside,  that  the 
master  and  his  family  may  see.  Then 
the  old  women  of  the  village  bring  barn- 
yard fowls  to  the  master  as  presents,  and 
these  are  left  in  the  house  which  the  horse 
has  only  recently  vacated.  Even  the 
chickens  are  decorated  with  strings  of 
berries  around  their  necks  and  bits  of 
evergreen  fastened  to  their  tails. 

The  Russians  have  also  a  ceremony  which 
is  more  agreeable.  On  each  New  Year's 
Day,  a  pile  of  sheaves  is  heaped  up  over 
a  large  pile  of  grain,  and  the  father,  after 
seating  himself  behind  it,  asks  the  children 
if  they  can  see  him.  They  say  they  can- 
not, and  he  replies  that  he  hopes  the  crops 
for  the  coming  year  will  be  so  fine  that 
he  will  be  hidden  in  the  fields. 

In  the  cities  there  is  a  grand  celebration 


13 


of  mass  in  the  morning  and  the  rest  of 
the  day  is  devoted  to  congratulatory  visits. 
Good  wishes  which  cannot  be  expressed  in 
person  are  put  into  the  newspapers  in  the 
form  of  advertisements,  and  in  military  and 
official  circles  ceremonial  visits  are  paid. 

The  Russians  are  very  fond  of  fortune- 
telling,  and  on  New  Year's  eve  the  young 
ladies  send  their  servants  into  the  street 
to  ask  the  names  of  the  first  person  they 
meet,  and  many  a  bashful  lover  has 
hastened  his  suit  by  taking  good  care  to 
be  the  first  one  who  is  met  by  the  servant 
of  his  lady  love.  At  midnight,  each 
member  of  the  family  salutes  every  other 
member  with  a  kiss,  beginning  with  the 
head  of  the  house,  and  then  they  retire, 
after  gravely  wishing  each  other  a  Happy 
New  Year. 

Except  that  picturesque  rake,  Leopold 
of  Belgium,  every  monarch  of  Europe 
has  for  many  years  begun  the  New  Year 
with  a  solemn  appeal  to  the  Almighty,  for 
strength,  guidance,  and  blessing. 

The  children  in  Belgium  spend  the  day  in 


14         aUatcljing  flje  j^eto  pear  3n 

trying  to  secure  a  "sugar  uncle "  or  a  "sugar 
aunt."  The  day  before  New  Year,  they 
gather  up  all  the  keys  of  the  household 
and  divide  them.  The  unhappy  mortal 
who  is  caught  napping  finds  himself  in  a 
locked  room,  from  which  he  is  not  released 
until  a  ransom  is  offered.  This  is  usually 
money  for  sweets  and  is  divided  among 
the  captors. 

In  France,  no  one  pays  much  attention 
to  Christmas,  but  New  Year's  day  is 
a  great  festival  and  presents  are  freely 
exchanged.  The  President  of  France  also 
holds  a  reception  somewhat  similar  to, 
and  possibly  copied  from,  that  which 
takes  place  in  the  White  House. 

In  Germany,  complimentary  visits  are 
exchanged  between  the  merest  acquaint- 
ances, and  New  Year's  gifts  are  made 
to  the  servants.  The  night  of  the  thirty- 
first  is  called  Sylvester  Aben  and  while 
many  of  the  young  people  dance,  the  day 
in  more  serious  households  takes  on  a 
religious  aspect.  During  the  evening, 
there  is  prayer  at  the  family  altar,  and  at 


H9atcf)ing  ttje  &tto  fiear  Jin          15 

midnight  the  watchman  on  the  church 
tower  blows  his  horn  to  announce  the 
birth  of  the  New  Year. 

At  Frankfort-on-the-Main  a  very  pretty 
custom  is  observed.  On  New  Year's  eve 
the  whole  city  keeps  a  festival  with  songs, 
feasting,  games,  and  family  parties  in  every 
house.  When  the  great  bell  in  the  cathe- 
dral tolls  the  first  stroke  of  midnight,  every 
house  opens  wide  its  windows.  People 
lean  from  the  casements,  glass  in  hand,  and 
from  a  hundred  thousand  throats  comes 
the  cry:  "Prosit  Neujahr!"  At  the  last 
stroke,  the  windows  are  closed  and  a  mid- 
night hush  descends  upon  the  city 

The  hospitable  Norwegians  and  Swedes 
spread  their  tables  heavily;  for  all  who 
may  come  in  at  Stockholm  there  is  a  grand 
banquet  at  the  Exchange,  where  the 
king  meets  his  people  in  truly  democratic 
fashion. 

The  Danes  greet  the  New  Year  with 
a  tremendous  volley  of  cannon,  and  at 
midnight  old  Copenhagen  is  shaken  to  its 
very  foundations.  It  is  considered  a 


16          QHjreafcg  of  ©rep  anb 


delicate  compliment  to  fire  guns  and 
pistols  under  the  bedroom  windows  of 
one's  friends  at  dawn  of  the  new  morning. 

The  dwellers  in  Cape  Town,  South 
Africa,  are  an  exception  to  the  general 
custom  of  English  colonists,  and  after 
the  manner  of  the  early  Dutch  settlers 
they  celebrate  the  New  Year  during  the 
entire  week.  Every  house  is  full  of 
visitors,  every  man,  woman,  and  child  is 
dressed  in  gay  garments,  and  no  one  has 
any  business  except  pleasure.  There  are 
picnics  to  Table  Mountain,  and  pleasure 
excursions  in  boats,  with  a  dance  every 
evening.  At  the  end  of  the  week,  every- 
body settles  down  and  the  usual  routine 
of  life  is  resumed. 

In  the  Indian  Empire,  the  day  which 
corresponds  to  our  New  Year  is  called 
"Hooly"  and  is  a  feast  in  honour  of  the 
god  Krishna.  Caste  temporarily  loses 
ground  and  the  prevailing  colour  is  red. 
Every  one  who  can  afford  it  wears  red 
garments,  red  powder  is  thrown  as  if  it 
were  confetti,  and  streams  of  red  water 


tfjc  J^eto  gear  3n         17 


are  thrown  upon  the  passers-by.  It  is 
all  taken  in  good  part,  however,  as  snow- 
balling is  with  us. 

Even  "farthest  North,"  where  the 
nights  are  six  months  long,  there  is  recog- 
nition of  the  New  Year.  The  Esquimaux 
come  out  of  their  snow  huts  and  ice  caves 
in  pairs,  one  of  each  pair  being  dressed 
in  women's  clothes.  They  gain  entrance 
into  every  igloo  in  the  village,  moving 
silently  and  mysteriously.  At  last  there 
is  not  a  light  left  in  the  place,  and  having 
extinguished  every  fire  they  can  find, 
they  kindle  a  fresh  one,  going  through  in 
the  meantime  solemn  ceremonies.  From 
this  one  source,  all  the  fires  and  lights  in 
the  district  are  kindled  anew. 

One  wonders  if  there  may  not  be  some 
fear  in  the  breasts  of  these  Children  of 
the  North,  when  for  an  instant  they  stand 
in  the  vastness  of  the  midnight,  utterly 
without  fire  or  light. 

The  most  wonderful  ceremonies  con- 
nected with  the  New  Year  take  place  in 
China  and  Japan.  In  these  countries  and 


i8          {Efjreafc*  of  <Srep  anb 


in  Corea  the  birth  of  the  year  is  considered 
the  birthday  of  the  whole  community. 
When  a  child  is  born  he  is  supposed  to  be 
a  year  old,  and  he  remains  thus  until  the 
changing  seasons  bring  the  annual  birth- 
day of  the  whole  Mongolian  race,  when 
another  year  is  credited  to  his  account. 

In  the  Chinese  quarter  of  the  large 
cities,  the  New  Year  celebrations  are 
dreaded  by  the  police,  since  where  there 
is  so  much  revelry  there  is  sure  to  be 
trouble.  In  the  native  country,  the  re- 
joicings absorb  fully  a  month,  during  the 
first  part  of  which  no  hunger  is  allowed 
to  exist  within  the  Empire. 

The  refreshments  are  light  in  kind  — 
peanuts,  watermelon  seeds,  sweetmeats, 
oranges,  tea  and  cakes.  Presents  of  food 
are  given  to  the  poor,  and  "brilliant 
cakes,"  supposed  to  help  the  children 
in  their  studies,  are  distributed  from 
the  temples. 

The  poor  little  Chinamen  must  sadly 
need  some  assistance,  in  view  of  the  fact 
that  every  word  in  their  language  has  a 


tfje  iBteto  gear  3n          19 


distinct  root,  and  their  alphabet  contains 
over  twenty  thousand  letters. 

At  an  early  hour  on  New  Year's  morning, 
which  according  to  their  calendar  comes 
between  the  twenty-first  of  January  and 
the  nineteenth  of  February,  they  pro- 
pitiate heaven  and  earth  with  offerings  of 
rice,  vegetables,  tea,  wine,  oranges,  and 
imitation  of  paper  money  which  they  burn 
with  incense,  joss-sticks,  and  candles. 

Strips  of  scarlet  paper,  bearing  mottoes, 
which  look  like  Chinese  laundry  checks, 
are  pasted  around  and  over  doors  and 
windows.  Blue  strips  among  the  red, 
mean  that  a  death  has  occurred  in  the 
family  since  the  last  celebration. 

New  Year's  calls  are  much  in  vogue  in 
China,  where  every  denizen  of  the  Empire 
pays  a  visit  to  each  of  his  superiors,  and 
receives  them  from  all  of  his  inferiors. 
Sometimes  cards  are  sent,  and,  as  with 
us,  this  takes  the  place  of  a  call. 

Images  of  gods  are  carried  in  procession 
to  the  beating  of  a  deafening  gong,  and 
mandarins  go  by  hundreds  to  the  Emperor 


20          3>tjrealis  of  &itp  anb 


and  the  Dowager  Empress,  with  congrat- 
ulatory addresses.  Their  robes  are  gor- 
geously embroidered  and  are  sometimes 
heavy  with  gold.  After  this,  they  worship 
their  household  gods. 

Illuminations  and  fireworks  make  the 
streets  gorgeous  at  night,  and  a  monstrous 
Chinese  dragon,  spouting  flame,  is  drawn 
through  the  streets. 

People  salute  each  other  with  cries  of 
"Kung-hi!  Kung-hi!"  meaning  I  humbly 
wish  you  joy,  or  "Sin-hi!  Sin-hi!"  May 
joy  be  yours. 

Many  amusements  in  the  way  of  the- 
atricals and  illumination  are  provided  for 
the  public. 

In  both  China  and  Japan,  all  debts  must 
be  paid  and  all  grudges  settled  before  the 
opening  of  the  New  Year.  Every  one  is 
supposed  to  have  new  clothes  for  the  oc- 
casion, and  those  who  cannot  obtain  them 
remain  hidden  in  their  houses. 

In  Japan,  the  conventional  New  Year 
costume  is  light  blue  cotton,  and  every 
one  starts  out  to  make  calls.  Letters 


ZSatcfjing  tfoe  Jleto  gear  3n         21 

on  rice  paper  are  sent  to  those  in  distant 
places,  conveying  appropriate  greetings. 

The  Japanese  also  go  to  their  favourite 
tea  gardens  where  bands  play,  and  wax 
figures  are  sold.  Presents  of  cooked  rice 
and  roasted  peas,  oranges,  and  figs  are 
offered  to  every  one.  The  peas  are 
scattered  about  the  houses  to  frighten 
away  the  evil  spirits,  and  on  the  fourth 
day  of  the  New  Year,  the  decorations  of 
lobster,  signifying  reproduction,  cabbages 
indicating  riches,  and  oranges,  meaning 
good  luck,  are  taken  down  and  replaced 
with  boughs  of  fruit  trees  and  flowers. 

Strange  indeed  is  the  country  in  which 
the  milestones  of  Time  pass  unheeded. 
In  spite  of  all  the  mirth  and  feasting, 
there  is  an  undercurrent  of  sadness  which 
has  been  most  fitly  expressed  by  Charles 
Lamb: 

Of  all  the  sounds,  the  most  solemn  and 
touching  is  the  peal  which  rings  out  the  old 
year.  I  never  hear  it  without  gathering  up 
in  my  mind  a  concentration  of  all  the  images 
that  have  been  diffused  over  the  past  twelve 


22          {Efjreabs  of  <J5rn>  anb  <Salb 


months ;  all  that  I  have  done  or  suffered,  per- 
formed, or  neglected,  in  that  regretted  time. 
I  begin  to  know  its  worth  as  when  a  person 
dies.  It  takes  a  personal  colour,  nor  was  it 
a  poetical  flight  in  a  contemporary,  when  he 
exclaimed:  'I  saw  the  skirts  of  the  departing 
year!'" 


ZTvoo 


THREAD  softly,  ye  throngs  with  hurry- 
1      ing  feet, 

Look  down,  O  ye  stars,  in  your  flight, 
And  bid  ye  farewell  to  a  time  that  was 

sweet, 
For  the  year  lies  a-dying  to-night. 

In  a  shroud  of  pure  snow  lie  the  quickly- 

fled  hours  — 

The  children  of  Time  and  of  Light; 
Stoop  down,  ye  fair  moon,  and  scatter 

sweet  flowers, 
For  the  year  lies  a-dying  to-night. 

Hush,  0  ye  rivers  that  sweep  to  the 

sea, 
From  hill  and  from  blue  mountain 

height; 
The  flood  of  your  song  should  be  sorrow, 

not  glee, 
For  the  year  lies  a-dying  to-night. 

23 


24          {g&teab*  of  Gttp  anb 


Good  night,  and  good-bye,  dear,  mellow, 

old  year, 

The  new  is  beginning  to  dawn. 
But  we  '11  turn  and  drop  on  thy  white 

grave  a  tear, 
For  the  sake  of  the  friend  that  is  gone. 


All  hail  to  the  New!    He  is  coming  with 

gladness, 
From  the  East,   where    in    light    he 

reposes ; 
He  is  bringing  a  year  free  from  pain  and 

from  sadness, 
He  is  bringing  a  June  with  her  ros^s. 

A  burst  of  sweet  music,  the  listeners  hear, 
The  stars  and  the  angels  give  warn- 
ing- 
He  is  coming  in  beauty,  this  joyful  New 

Year, 

O'er  the  flower-strewn  stairs  of  the 
morning. 

He  is  bringing  a  day  with  glad  pulses 

beating, 

For  the  sorrow  and  passion  are  gone, 
And  Love  and  Life  have  a  rapturous 

meeting 
In  the  rush  and  the  gladness  of  dawn. 


25 


The  Old  has  gone  out  with  a  crown  that 

is  hoary, 

The  New  in  his  brightness  draws  near; 
Then  let  us  look  up  in  the  light  and  the 

glory, 
And  welcome  this  royal  New  Year. 


Gbe  Courtsbip  of 
TOaebtiiQton 


HPHE  quaint  old  steel  engraving  which 
•••  shows  George  and  Martha  Washing- 
ton sitting  by  a  table,  while  the  Custis 
children  stand  dutifully  by,  is  a  familiar 
picture  in  many  households,  yet  few  of  us 
remember  that  the  first  Lady  of  the  White 
House  was  not  always  first  in  the  heart 
of  her  husband/ 

The  years  have  brought  us,  as  a  people, 
a  growing  reverence  for  him  who  was 
in  truth  the  "Father  of  His  Country." 
Time  has  invested  him  with  godlike  at- 
tributes, yet,  none  the  less,  he  was  a  many 
among  men,  and  the  hot  blood  of  youth 
ran  tumultuously  in  his  veins. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen,  like  many  another 
schoolboy,  Washington  fell  in  love.     The 

man  who  was  destined  to  be  the  Com- 
26 


Courtship  of  Kiasfjington  27 

mander  of  the  Revolutionary  Army,  wan- 
dered through  the  shady  groves  of  Mount 
Vernon  composing  verses  which,  from  a 
critical  standpoint,  were  very  bad.  Scraps 
of  verse  were  later  mingled  with  notes 
of  surveys,  and  interspersed  with  the 
accounts  which  that  methodical  statesman 
kept  from  his  school-days  until  the  year 
of  his  death. 

In  the  archives  of  the  Capitol  on  a 
yellowed  page,  in  Washington's  own 
handwriting,  these  lines  are  still  to  be 
read: 

"Oh,  Ye    Gods,    why  should   my  Poor 

Resistless  Heart 

Stand  to  oppose  thy  might  and  Power, 
At  last  surrrender  to  Cupid's  feather'd 

Dart, 

And  now  lays  bleeding  every  Hour 
For  her  that's  Pityless  of  my  grief  and 

Woes, 

And  will  not  on  me,  pity  take. 
I  '11  sleep  amongst  my  most   inveterate 

Foes, 

And  with  gladness  never  wish  to  wake. 
In  Deluding   sleepings  let    my   Eyelids 
close, 


28          &breab*  of  £rep  anb 


That  in  an  enraptured  Dream  I  may 
In  a  soft  lulling  sleep  and  gentle  repose 
Possess  those  joys  denied  by  Day." 

Among  these  boyish  fragments  there 
is  also  an  incomplete  acrostic,  evidently 
intended  for  Miss  Frances  Alexander, 
which  reads  as  follows: 

"  From  your  bright  sparkling  Eyes  I  was 

undone  ; 
Rays,  you  have,  rays  more  transparent 

than  the  Sun 

Amidst  its  glory  in  the  rising  Day; 
None  can  you  equal  in  your  bright  array  ; 
Constant  in  your  calm,  unspotted  Mind; 
Equal  to  all,  but  will  to  none  Prove  kind, 
So  knowing,  seldom  one  so  young  you  '11 
Find. 

11  Ah,  woe's  me  that  I  should  Love  and 

conceal  — 
Long  have    I   wished,   but  never   dare 

reveal, 
Even   though   severely  Love's   Pains  I 

feel; 
Xerxes  that  great  wast  not  free  from 

Cupid's  Dart, 
And   all    the  greatest  Heroes    felt  the 

smart." 


€ourt*f)ip  of  JKasrfrington  29 

He  wrote  at  length  to  several  of  his 
friends  concerning  his  youthful  passions. 
In  the  tell-tale  pages  of  the  diary,  for  1748, 
there  is  this  draft  of  a  letter: 

"DEAR  FRIEND  ROBIN:  My  place  of  Resi- 
dence is  at  present  at  His  Lordship's  where 
I  might,  was  my  heart  disengag'd,  pass  my 
time  very  pleasantly,  as  there 's  a  very 
agreeable  Young  Lady  Lives  in  the  same 
house  (Col.  George  Fairfax's  Wife's  Sister); 
but  as  that 's  only  adding  fuel  to  fire,  it  makes 
me  the  more  uneasy,  for  by  often  and  un- 
avoidably being,  in  Company  with  her  revives 
my  former  Passion  for  your  Lowland  Beauty; 
whereas  was  I  to  live  more  retired  from 
young  Women  I  might  in  some  measure 
aliviate  my  sorrows  by  burying  that  chaste 
and  troublesome  Passion  in  the  grave  of 
oblivion  or  eternal  forgetfulness,  for  as  I  am 
very  well  assured,  that 's  the  only  antidote 
or  remedy,  that  I  shall  be  relieved  by,  as 
I  am  well  convinced,  was  I  ever  to  ask  any 
question,  I  should  only  get  a  denial  which 
would  be  adding  grief  to  uneasiness." 

The  "Lowland  Beauty"  was  Miss  Mary 
Bland.  Tradition  does  not  say  whether 
or  not  she  ever  knew  of  Washington's 
admiration,  but  she  married  Henry  Lee. 


30          {Efjrea&tf  of  <@rep  anii 


"Light  Horse  Harry,  "that  daring  master 
of  cavalry  of  Revolutionary  fame,  was 
the  son  of  the  "Lowland  Beauty,"  and 
some  tender  memories  of  the  mother  may 
have  been  mingled  with  Washington's 
fondness  for  the  young  soldier.  It  was 
"Light  Horse  Harry"  also,  who  said  of 
the  Commander-in-Chief  that  he  was 
"first  in  war,  first  in  peace,  and  first  in 
the  hearts  of  his  countrymen!" 

By  another  trick  of  fate  the  grandson 
of  the  "Lowland  Beauty"  was  Gen. 
Robert  E.  Lee.  Who  can  say  what 
momentous  changes  might  have  been 
wrought  in  history  had  Washington  mar- 
ried his  first  love? 

Miss  Gary,  the  sister  of  Mrs.  Fairfax, 
was  the  "agreeable  young  lady"  of  whom 
he  speaks.  After  a  time  her  charm  seems 
to  have  partially  mitigated  the  pain  he 
felt  over  the  loss  of  her  predecessor  in 
his  affections.  Later  he  writes  of  a  Miss 
Betsey  Fauntleroy,  saying  that  he  is  soon 
to  see  her,  and  that  he  "hopes  for  a  re- 
vocation of  her  former  cruel  sentence.  " 


Courtship  of  ZHasfjmgton  31 

When  Braddock's  defeat  brought  the 
soldier  again  to  Mount  Vernon,  to  rest 
from  the  fatigues  of  the  campaign,  there 
is  abundant  evidence  to  prove  that  he 
had  become  a  personage  in  the  eyes  of 
women.  For  instance,  Lord  Fairfax 
writes  to  him,  saying: 

"If  a  Satterday  Night's  Rest  cannot  be 
sufficient  to  enable  your  coming  hither  to 
morrow,  the  Lady's  will  try  to  get  Horses  to 
equip  our  Chair  or  attempt  their  strength  on 
Foot  to  Salute  you,  so  desirious  are  they 
with  loving  Speed  to  have  an  occular  Demon- 
stration of  your  being  the  same  identical 
Gent — that  lately  departed  to  defend  his 
Country's  Cause. " 

A  very  feminine  postcript  was  attached 
to  this  which  read  as  follows : 

"DEAR  SIR 

"After  thanking  Heaven  for  your  safe 
return,  I  must  accuse  you  of  great  unkindness 
in  refusing  us  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  this 
night.  I  do  assure  you  nothing  but  our 
being  satisfied  that  our  company  would  be 
disagreeable,  should  prevent  us  from  trying 
if  our  Legs  would  not  carry  us  to  Mount 


32          tEfjrea&g  of  £rep  anb 


Vernon  this  night,  but  if  you  will  not  come 
to  us,  tomorrow  morning  very  early  we  shall 
be  at  Mount  Vernon. 

"SALLY  FAIRFAX 
ANN  SPEARING 
ELIZ'TH  DENT" 


Yet,  in  spite  of  the  attractions  of 
Virginia  we  find  him  journeying  to  Boston, 
on  military  business,  by  way  of  New 
York. 

The  hero  of  Braddock's  stricken  field 
found  every  door  open  before  him.  He 
was  fe"ted  in  Philadelphia,  and  the  aris- 
tocrats of  Manhattan  gave  dinners  in 
honour  of  the  strapping  young  soldier 
from  the  wilds  of  Virginia. 

At  the  house  of  his  friend,  Beverly 
Robinson,  he  met  Miss  Mary  Philipse, 
and  speedily  surrendered.  She  was  a 
beautiful,  cultured  woman,  twenty-five 
years  old,  who  had  travelled  widely  and 
had  seen  much  of  the  world.  He  promptly 
proposed  to  her,  and  was  refused,  but 
with  exquisite  grace  and  tact. 

Graver  affairs  however  soon  claimed  his 


Courtship  of  atatfijmgtim  33 

attention,  and  he  did  not  go  back,  though 
a  friend  wrote  to  him  that  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  Morris  was  besieging  the  citadel. 
She  married  Morris,  and  their  house  in 
Morristown  became  Washington's  head- 
quarters, in  1776 — again,  how  history 
might  have  been  changed  had  Mary  Phi- 
lipse  married  her  Virginia  lover! 

In  the  spring  of  1758,  Washington  met 
his  fate.  He  was  riding  on  horseback 
from  Mount  Vernon  to  Williamsburg 
with  important  despatches.  In  crossing 
a  ford  of  the  Pamunkey  he  fell  in  with  a 
Mr.  Chamberlayne,  who  lived  in  the 
neighbourhood.  With  true  Virginian  hos- 
pitality he  prevailed  upon  Washington  to 
take  dinner  at  his  house,  making  the 
arrangement  with  much  difficulty,  how- 
ever, since  the  soldier  was  impatient  to 
get  to  Williamsburg. 

Once  inside  the  colonial  house,  whose 
hospitable  halls  breathed  welcome,  his 
impatience,  and  the  errand  itself,  were 
almost  forgotten.  A  negro  servant  led  his 
horse  up  and  down  the  gravelled  walk  in 


34          {£i)teabg  of  <@rep  an  to 


front  of  the  house  ;  the  servant  grew  tired, 
the  horse  pawed  and  sniffed  with  im- 
patience, but  Washington  lingered. 

A  petite  hazel-eyed  woman  —  she  who 
was  once  Patsy  Dandridge,  but  then  the 
widow  of  Daniel  Parke  Custis  —  was  delay- 
ing important  affairs.  At  night-fall  the 
distracted  warrior  remembered  his  mission, 
and  made  a  hasty  adieu.  Mr.  Chamber- 
layhe,  meeting  him  at  the  door,  laid  a 
restraining  hand  upon  his  arm.  "No 
guest  ever  leaves  my  house  after  sunset,  " 
he  said. 

The  horse  was  put  up,  the  servant 
released  from  duty,  and  Washington  re- 
mained until  the  next  morning,  when, 
with  new  happiness  in  his  heart,  he 
dashed  on  to  Williamsburg. 

We  may  well  fancy  that  her  image  was 
before  him  all  the  way.  She  had  worn 
a  gown  of  white  dimity,  with  a  cluster 
of  Mayblossoms  at  her  belt,  and  a  little 
white  widow's  cap  half  covered  her  soft 
brown  hair. 

She  was  twenty-six,  some  three  months 


Courtship  of  ilHasljtngton  35 

younger  than  Washington ;  she  had  wealth, 
and  two  children.  Mr.  Custis  had  been 
older  than  his  Patsy,  for  she  was  married 
when  she  was  but  seventeen.  He  had 
been  a  faithful  and  affectionate  husband, 
but  he  had  not  appealed  to  her  imagination, 
and  it  was  doubtless  through  her  imagina- 
tion, that  the  big  Virginia  Colonel  won 
her  heart. 

She  left  Mr.  Chamberlayne's  and  went 
to  her  home — the  "White  House" — near 
William's  Ferry.  The  story  is  that  when 
Washington  came  from  Williamsburg,  he 
was  met  at  the  ferry  by  one  of  Mrs. 
Custis's  slaves.  "Is  your  mistress  at 
home?"  he  inquired  of  the  negro  who 
was  rowing  him  across  the  river. 

"Yes,  sah, "  replied  the  darkey,  then 
added  slyly,  "I  recon  you  am  de  man 
what  am  expected. " 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
next  day  when  Washington  took  his  de- 
parture, but  he  had  her  promise  and  was 
happy.  A  ring  was  ordered  from  Phila- 
delphia, and  is  duly  set  down  in  his 


36  £!jrcatHJ  of  &tcp  anb 


accounts:    "One    engagement   ring,    two 
pounds,  sixteen  shillings.  " 

Then  came  weary  months  of  service 
in  the  field,  and  they  saw  each  other  only 
four  times  before  they  were  married. 
There  were  doubtless  frequent  letters, 
but  only  one  of  them  remains.  It  is  the 
letter  of  a  soldier: 

"  We  have  begun  our  march  for  the  Ohio, 
[he  wrote].  A  courier  is  starting  for  Williams- 
burg,  and  I  embrace  the  opportunity  to  send 
a  few  words  to  one  whose  life  is  now  insep- 
arable from  mine. 

"Since  that  happy  hour,  when  we  made  our 
pledges  to  each  other,  my  thoughts  have 
been  continually  going  to  you  as  to  another 
self.  That  an  All-powerful  Providence  may 
keep  us  both  in  safety  is  the  prayer  of  your 
ever  faithful  and  affectionate  Friend 

"G.  WASHINGTON 

"20th  of  July 

Mrs.  Martha  Custis." 

On  the  sixth  of  the  following  January 
they  were  married  in  the  little  church 
of  St.  Peter.  Once  again  Dr.  Mossum, 
in  full  canonicals,  married  "Patsy"  Dan- 


Court stitp  of  BHasfjington  37 

dridge  to  the  man  of  her  choice.  The 
bridegroom  wore  a  blue  cloth  coat  lined 
with  red  silk  and  ornamented  with  silver 
trimmings.  His  vest  was  embroidered 
white  satin,  his  shoe-  and  knee-buckles 
were  of  solid  gold,  his  hair  was  powdered, 
and  a  dress  sword  hung  at  his  side. 

The  bride  was  attired  in  heavy  brocaded 
white  silk  inwoven  with  a  silver  thread. 
She  wore  a  white  satin  quilted  petticoat 
with  heavy  corded  white  silk  over-skirt, 
and  high-heeled  shoes  of  white  satin  with 
•  buckles  of  brilliants.  She  had  ruffles  of 
rich  point  lace,  pearl  necklace,  ear-rings, 
and  bracelets,  and  was  attended  by  three 
bridesmaids. 

The  aristocracy  of  Virginia  was  out  in 
full  force.  One  of  the  most  imposing 
figures  was  Bishop,  the  negro  servant, 
who  had  led  Washington's  horse  up  and 
down  the  gravelled  path  in  front  of  Mr. 
Chamberlayne's  door  while  the  master 
lingered  within.  He  was  in  the  scarlet 
uniform  of  King  George's  army,  booted 
and  spurred,  and  he  held  the  bridle  rein 


38          Cfjrca&s  of 


of  the  chestnut  charger  that  was  forced 
to  wait  while  his  rider  made  love. 

On  leaving  the  church,  the  bride  and 
her  maids  rode  back  to  the  "White  House  " 
in  a  coach  drawn  by  six  horses,  and  guided 
by  black  post-boys  in  livery,  while  Colonel 
Washington,  on  his  magnificent  horse, 
and  attended  by  a  brilliant  company, 
rode  by  her  side. 

There  was  no  seer  to  predict  that  some 
time  the  little  lady  in  white  satin,  brocade 
silk,  and  rich  laces,  would  spend  long  hours 
knitting  stockings  for  her  husband's  army, 
and  that  night  after  night  would  find  her,  in 
a  long  grey  cloak,  at  the  side  of  the  wounded, 
hearing  from  stiffening  lips  the  husky  whis- 
per, "God  bless  you,  Lady  Washington!" 

All  through  the  troublous  times  that 
followed,  Washington  was  the  lover  as 
well  as  the  husband.  He  took  a  father's 
place  with  the  little  children,  treating 
them  with  affection,  but  never  swerving 
from  the  path  of  justice.  With  the  fond- 
ness of  a  lover,  he  ordered  fine  clothes 
for  his  wife  from  London. 


Courts Jjip  of  KJasiitngton  39 

After  his  death,  Mrs.  Washington  de- 
stroyed all  of  his  letters.  There  is  only 
one  of  them  to  be  found  which  was  writ- 
ten after  their  marriage.  It  is  in  an  old 
book,  printed  in  New  York  in  1796,  when 
the  narrow  streets  around  the  tall  spire 
of  Trinity  were  the  centre  of  social  life, 
and  the  busy  hum  of  Wall  Street  was 
not  to  be  heard  for  fifty  years ! 

One  may  fancy  a  stately  Knicker- 
bocker stopping  at  a  little  bookstall 
where  the  dizzy  heights  of  the  Empire 
Building  now  rise,  or  down  near  the 
Battery,  untroubled  by  the  white  cliff 
called  "The  Bowling  Green,"  and  asking 
pompously  enough,  for  the  Epistles; 
Domestic,  Confidential,  and  Official,  from 
General  Washington. 

The  pages  are  yellowed  with  age, 
and  the  "f "  used  in  the  place  of  the  "s", 
as  well  as  the  queer  orthography  and 
capitalisation,  look  strange  to  twentieth- 
century  eyes,  but  on  page  56  the  lover- 
husband  pleads  with  his  lady  in  a  way  that 
we  can  well  understand. 


40          3H)reab*  of  (Step  anfc  (Solb 

The  letter  is  dated  "June  24,  1776," 
and  in  part  is  as  follows: 

"MY  DEAREST  LIFE  AND  LOVE. — 

"You  have  hurt  me,  I  know  not  how  much, 
by  the  insinuation  in  your  last,  that  my 
letters  to  you  have  been  less  frequent  because 
I  have  felt  less  concern  for  you. 

"The  suspicion  is  most  unjust;  may  I  not 
add,  is  most  unkind.  Have  we  lived,  now 
almost  a  score  of  years,  in  the  closest  and 
dearest  conjugal  intimacy  to  so  little  pur- 
pose, that  on  the  appearance  only,  of  in- 
attention to  you,  and  which  you  might  have 
accounted  for  in  a  thousand  ways  more 
natural  and  more  probable,  you  should  pitch 
upon  that  single  motive  which  is  alone  injuri- 
ous to  me? 

"  I  have  not,  I  own,  wrote  so  often  to  you  as 
I  wished  and  dS  I  ought. 

"But  think  of  my  situation,  and  then  ask 
your  heart  if  I  be  without  excuse? 

"We  are  not,  my  dearest,  in  circumstances 
the  most  favorable  to  our  happiness;  but 
let  us  not,  I  beseech  of  you,  make  them  worse 
by  indulging  suspicions  and  apprehensions 
which  minds  in  distress  are  apt  to  give  way  to. 

"I  never  was,  as  you  have  often  told  me, 
even  in  my  better  and  more  disengaged 
days,  so  attentive  to  the  little  punctillios 
of  friendship,  as  it  may  be,  became  me;  but 


Conrtefjip  of  8Ha«bingtou  41 

my  heart  tells  me,  there  never  was  a  moment 
in  my  life,  since  I  first  knew  you,  in  which  it 
did  not  cleave  and  cling  to  you  with  the 
warmest  affection;  and  it  must  cease  to  beat 
ere  it  can  cease  to  wish  for  your  happiness, 
above  anything  on  earth. 
' '  Your  faithful  and  tender  husband,  G.  W. " 

"'Seventy-six!"  The  words  bring  a 
thrill  even  now,  yet,  in  the  midst  of  those 
stirring  times,  not  a  fortnight  before  the 
Declaration  was  signed,  and  after  twenty 
years  of  marriage,  he  could  write  her  like 
this.  Even  his  reproaches  are  gentle,  and 
filled  with  great  tenderness. 

And  so  it  went  on,  through  the  Revolu- 
tion and  through  the  stormy  days  in  which 
the  Republic  was  born.  There  were  long 
and  inevitable  separations,  yet  a  part  of 
the  time  she  was  with  him,  doing  her 
duty  as  a  soldier's  wife,  and  sternly  refusing 
to  wear  garments  which  were  not  woven 
in  American  looms. 

During  the  many  years  they  lived  at 
Mount  Vernon,  they  attended  divine 
service  at  Christ  Church,  Alexandria, 
Virginia,  one  of  the  quaint  little  landmarks 


42          fltfjreafc*  of  <§rep  anfc 


of  the  town  which  is  still  standing.  For 
a  number  of  years  he  was  a  vestryman  of 
the  church,  and  the  pew  occupied  by  him 
is  visited  yearly  by  thousands  of  tourists 
while  sight-seeing  in  the  national  Capitol. 
Indeed  all  the  churches,  so  far  as  known, 
in  which  he  once  worshipped,  have  pre- 
served his  pew  intact,  while  there  are 
hundreds  of  tablets,  statues,  and  monu- 
ments throughout  the  country. 

In  the  magnificent  monument  at  Wash- 
ington, rising  to  a  height  of  more  than  555 
feet,  the  various  States  of  the  Union  have 
placed  stone  replicas  of  their  State  seals, 
and  these,  with  other  symbolic  devices, 
constitute  the  inscriptions  upon  one  hun- 
dred and  seventy-nine  of  these  memorial 
stones.  Not  only  this,  but  Europe  and 
Asia,  China  and  Japan  have  honoured 
themselves  by  erecting  memorials  to  the 
great  American. 

When  at  last  his  long  years  of  service 
for  his  country  were  ended,  he  and  his 
beloved  wife  returned  again  to  their 
beautiful  home  at  Mount  Vernon,  to  wait 


Courtsfjtp  of  HlaaJjington  43 

for  the  night  together.  The  whole  world 
knows  how  the  end  came,  with  her  loving 
ministrations  to  the  very  last  of  the  three 
restful  years  which  they  at  this  time  spent 
together  at  the  old  home,  and  how  he 
looked  Death  bravely  in  the  face,  as 
became  a  soldier  and  a  Christian. 


3be  ®tt>  anb  tbe  IRevo 

RANDMOTHER  sat  at  her  spinning 

wheel 

In  the  dust  of  the  long  ago, 
And  listened,  with  scarlet  dyeing  her  cheeks, 

For  the  step  she  had  learned  to  know. 
A  courtly  lover,  was  he  who  came, 

With  frill  and  ruffle  and  curl — 

They  dressed  so  queerly  in  the  days 

When  grandmother  was  a  girl! 

"Knickerbockers"  they  called  them  then, 

When  they  spoke  of  the  things  at  all — 
Grandfather  wore  them,    buckled   and 
•  trim, 

When  he  sallied  forth  to  call. 
Grandmother's  eyes  were  youthful  then — 

His  "guiding  stars,"  he  said; 
While  she  demurely  watched  her  wheel 

And  spun  with  a  shining  thread. 

Frill,  and  ruffle,  and  curl  are  gone, 
But  the  "knickers"  are  with  us  still — 

And  so  is  love  and  the  spinning  wheel, 
But  we  ride  it  now — if  you  will ! 
44 


ant!  tfje  Jleto  45 


In   grandfather's    "knickers"    I    sit    and 

watch 

For  the  gleam  of  a  lamp  afar; 
And  my  heart  still  turns,  as  theirs,  me- 

thinks, 
To  my  wheel  and  my  guiding  star. 


%o\>e  Storp  of  tbe  Sage  of 
flDonticeUo 


A  MERICAN  history  holds  no  more 
**  beautiful  love-story  than  that  of 
Thomas  Jefferson,  third  President  of  the 
United  States,  and  author  of  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence.  It  is  a  tale  of  single- 
hearted,  unswerving  devotion,  worthy  of 
this  illustrious  statesman.  His  love  for 
his  wife  was  not  the  first  outpouring  of 
his  nature,  but  it  was  the  strongest  and 
best  —  the  love,  not  of  the  boy,  but  of  the 
man. 

Jefferson  was  not  particularly  handsome 
as  a  young  man,  for  he  was  red-haired, 
awkward,  and  knew  not  what  to  do  with 
his  hands,  though  he  played  the  violin  pass- 
ably well.  But  his  friend,  Patrick  Henry, 
suave,  tactful  and  popular,  exerted  himself 

to  improve  Jefferson's  manners   and  fit 
46 


(Efje  g>age  of  iHonttccllo  47 

him  for  general  society,  attaining  at  last 
very  pleasing  results,  although  there  was 
a  certain  roughness  in  his  nature,  shown 
in  his  correspondence,  which  no  amount 
of  polishing  seemed  able  to  overcome. 

John  Page  was  Jefferson's  closest  friend, 
and  to  him  he  wrote  very  fully  concerning 
the  state  of  his  mind  and  heart,  and  with 
a  certain  quaint,  uncouth  humour,  which 
to  this  day  is  irresistible. 

For  instance,  at  Fail-field,  Christmas 
day,  1762,  he  wrote  to  his  friend  as  follows: 

"DEAR  PAGE 

"This  very  day,  to  others  the  day  of  greatest 
mirth  and  jolity,  sees  me  overwhelmed  with 
more  and  greater  misfortunes  than  have 
befallen  a  descendant  of  Adam  for  these 
thousand  years  past,  I  am  sure ;  and  perhaps, 
after  excepting  Job,  since  the  creation  of  the 
world. 

"You  must  know,  Dear  Page,  that  I  am  now 
in  a  house  surrounded  by  enemies,  who  take 
counsel  together  against  my  soul;  and  when 
I  lay  me  down  to  rest,  they  say  among  them- 
selves, '  Come  let  us  destroy  him. ' 

"I  am  sure  if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a 
Devil  in  this  world,  he  must  have  been  here 


48          &breat)*  of  &rtp  anb 


last  night,  and  have  had  some  hand  in  what 
happened  to  me.  Do  you  think  the  cursed 
rats  (at  his  instigation  I  suppose)  did  not  eat 
up  my  pocket  book,  which  was  in  my  pocket, 
within  an  inch  of  my  head?  And  not  con- 
tented with  plenty  for  the  present,  they 
carried  away  my  gemmy  worked  silk  garters, 
and  half  a  dozen  new  minuets  I  had  just  got, 
to  serve,  I  suppose,  as  provision  for  the  winter. 

"You  know  it  rained  last  night,  or  if  you  do 
not  know  it,  I  am  sure  I  do.  When  I  went 
to  bed  I  laid  my  watch  in  the  usual  place, 
and  going  to  take  her  up  after  I  arose  this 
morning,  I  found  her  in  the  same  place,  it 
is  true,  but  all  afloat  in  water,  let  in  at  a  leak 
in  the  roof  of  the  house,  and  as  silent,  and  as 
still  as  the  rats  that  had  eaten  my  pocket 
book. 

"Now,  you  know  if  chance  had  anything  to 
do  in  this  matter,  there  were  a  thousand 
other  spots  where  it  might  have  chanced  to 
leak  as  well  as  this  one  which  was  perpen- 
dicularly over  my  watch.  But  I  '11  tell 
you,  it  's  my  opinion  that  the  Devil  came  and 
bored  the  hole  over  it  on  purpose. 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,  my  poor  watch  had 
lost  her  speech.  I  would  not  have  cared 
much  for  this,  but  something  worse  attended 
it  —  the  subtle  particles  of  water  with  which 
the  case  was  filled  had,  by  their  penetration, 
so  overcome  the  cohesion  of  the  particles 


£>age  of  ^Hontt  cello  49 


of  the  paper,  of  which  my  dear  picture,  and 
watch  patch  paper,  were  composed,  that  in 
attempting  to  take  them  out  to  dry  them, 
my  cursed  fingers  gave  them  such  a  rent  as 
I  fear  I  shall  never  get  over. 

"...  And  now,  though  her  picture  be 
defaced,  there  is  so  lively  an  image  of  her 
imprinted  in  my  mind,  that  I  shall  think  of 
her  too  often,  I  fear  for  my  peace  of  mind  ; 
and  too  often  I  am  sure  to  get  through  old 
Coke  this  winter,  for  I  have  not  seen  him 
since  I  packed  him  up  in  my  trunk  in 
Williamsburg.  Well,  Page,  I  do  wish  the 
Devil  had  old  Coke  for  I  am  sure  I  never 
was  so  tired  of  the  dull  old  scoundrel  in  my 
life.  .  .  . 

"I  would  fain  ask  the  favor  of  Miss  Bettey 
Burwell  to  give  me  another  watch  paper 
of  her  own  cutting,  which  I  should  esteem 
much  more  though  it  were  a  plain  round  one, 
than  the  nicest  in  the  world  cut  by  other 
hands;  however  I  am  afraid  she  would  think 
this  presumption,  after  my  suffering  the  other 
to  get  spoiled.  If  you  think  you  can  excuse 
me  to  her  for  this,  I  should  be  glad  if  you 
would  ask  her.  , 


Page  was  a  little  older  than  Jefferson, 
and  the  young  man  thought  much  of  his 
advice.  Six  months  later  we  find  Page 


50  Cljreabsf  of  <Srep  anb 


advising   him    to    go    to    Miss    Rebecca 
Burwell  and  "lay  siege  in  form." 

There  were  many  objections  to  this  — 
first,  the  necessity  of  keeping  the  matter 
secret,  and  of  "treating  with  a  ward 
before  obtaining  the  consent  of  her 
guardian,"  which  at  that  time  was  con- 
sidered dishonourable,  and  second,  Jeffer- 
son's own  state  of  suspense  and  uneasiness, 
since  the  lady  had  given  him  no  grounds 
for  hope. 

"If  I  am  to  succeed  [he  wrote],  the  sooner 
I  know  it  the  less  uneasiness  I  shall  have 
to  go  through.  If  I  am  to  meet  with  dis- 
appointment, the  sooner  I  know  it,  the  more 
of  life  I  shall  have  to  wear  it  off;  and  if  I 
do  meet  with  one,  I  hope  and  verily  believe 
it  will  be  the  last. 

"I  assure  you  that  I  almost  envy  you  your 
present  freedom  and  I  assure  you  that  if 
Belinda  will  not  accept  of  my  heart,  it  shall 
never  be  offered  to  another." 

In  his  letters  he  habitually  spoke  of 
Miss  Burwell  as  "Belinda,"  presumably 
on  account  of  the  fear  which  he  expresses 
to  Page,  that  the  letters  might  possibly 


g>age  of  itlontt  cello  51 


fall  into  other  hands.  In  some  of  his 
letters  he  spells  "Belinda"  backward,  and 
with  exaggerated  caution,  in  Greek  letters. 
Finally,  with  much  fear  and  trembling, 
he  took  his  friend's  advice,  and  laid  seige 
to  the  fair  Rebecca  in  due  form.  The 
day  afterward  —  October  7,  1763  —  he  con- 
fided in  Page  : 

'  '  In  the  most  melancholy  fit  that  ever  a  poor 
soul  was,  I  sit  down  to  write  you.  Last 
night,  as  merry  as  agreeable  company  and 
dancing  with  Belinda  could  make  me,  I 
never  could  have  thought  that  the  succeeding 
sun  would  have  seen  me  so  wretched  as  I  now 
am! 

"  I  was  prepared  to  say  a  great  deal.  I  had 
dressed  up  in  my  own  mind,  such  thoughts 
as  occurred  to  me,  in  as  moving  language 
as  I  knew  how,  and  expected  to  have  per- 
formed in  a  tolerably  creditable  manner. 
But  .  .  .  when  I  had  an  opportunity  of 
venting  them,  a  few  broken  sentences, 
uttered  in  great  disorder,  and  interrupted 
by  pauses  of  uncommon  length  were  the 
too  visible  marks  of  my  strange  confusion! 

"The  whole  confab  I  will  tell  you,  word  for 
word  if  I  can  when  I  see  you  which  God  send, 
may  be  soon." 


52  flPbrea&S  of  <&rep  anfc 


After  this,  he  dates  his  letters  at  "  Devils- 
burg,  "  instead  of  Williamsburg,  and  says 
in  one  of  them,  "I  believe  I  never  told 
you  that  we  had  another  occasion.  "  This 
time  he  behaved  more  creditably,  told 
"Belinda"  that  it  was  necessary  for  him 
to  go  to  England,  explained  the  inevitable 
delays  and  told  how  he  should  conduct 
himself  until  his  return.  He  says  that 
he  asked  no  questions  which  would  admit 
of  a  categorical  answer  —  there  was  some- 
thing of  the  lawyer  in  this  wooing!  He 
assured  Miss  Rebecca  that  such  a  question 
would  one  day  be  asked.  In  this  letter 
she  is  called  "Adinleh'  and  spoken  of  as 
"he." 

Miss  Burwell  did  not  wait,  however, 
until  Jefferson  was  in  a  position  to  seek 
her  hand  openly,  but  was  suddenly  married 
to  another.  The  news  was  a  great  shock 
to  Jefferson,  who  refused  to  believe  it 
until  Page  confirmed  it;  but  the  love-lorn 
swain  gradually  recovered  from  his  dis- 
appointment. 

With  youthful  ardour  they  had  planned 


£>agc  of  iflontircllo  53 


to  buy  adjoining  estates  and  have  a  car- 
riage in  common,  when  each  married  the 
lady  of  his  love,  that  they  might  attend 
all  the  dances.  A  little  later,  when  Page 
was  also  crossed  in  love,  both  forswore 
marriage  forever. 

For  five  or  six  years,  Jefferson  was 
faithful  to  his  vow  —  rather  an  unusual 
record.  He  met  his  fate  at  last  in  the  per- 
son of  a  charming  widow  —  Martha  Skelton. 

The  death  of  his  sister,  his  devotion 
to  his  books,  and  his  disappointment 
made  him  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man. 
His  home  at  Shadwell  had  been  burned, 
and  he  removed  to  Monticello,  a  house 
built  on  the  same  estate  on  a  spur  of  the 
Blue  Ridge  Mountains,  five  hundred  feet 
above  the  common  level. 

He  went  often  to  visit  Mrs.  Skelton 
who  made  her  home  with  her  father  after 
her  bereavement.  Usually  he  took  his 
violin  under  his  arm,  and  out  of  the 
harmonies  which  came  from  the  instru- 
ment and  the  lady's  spinet  came  the 
greater  one  of  love. 


54          QHjreab*  of  <@rep  atifc  <f>olb 

They  were  married  in  January  of  1772. 
The  ceremony  took  place  at  "The  Forest" 
in  Charles  City  County.  The  chronicles 
describe  the  bride  as  a  beautiful  woman, 
a  little  above  medium  height,  finely  formed, 
and  with  graceful  carriage.  She  was 
well  educated,  read  a  great  deal,  and  played 
the  spinet  unusually  well. 

The  wedding  journey  was  a  strange  one. 
It  was  a  hundred  miles  from  "The  Forest " 
to  Monticello,  and  years  afterward  their 
eldest  daughter,  Martha  Jefferson  Ran- 
dolph, described  it  as  follows: 

"They  left  'The  Forest'  after  a  fall  of 
snow,  light  then,  but  increasing  in  depth  as 
they  advanced  up  the  country.  They  were 
finally  obliged  to  quit  the  carriage  and  proceed 
on  horseback.  They  arrived  late  at  night, 
the  fires  were  all  out,  and  the  servants  had 
retired  to  their  own  houses  for  the  night. 
The  horrible  dreariness  of  such  a  house,  at 
the  end  of  such  a  journey,  I  have  often  heard 
both  relate." 

Yet,  the  walls  of  Monticello,  that 
afterwards  looked  down  upon  so  much 


of  jflonticdlo  55 


sorrow  and  so  much  joy,  must  have  long 
remembered  the  home-coming  of  master 
and  mistress,  for  the  young  husband 
found  a  bottle  of  old  wine  "on  a  shelf  behind 
some  books,"  built  a  fire  in  the  open  fire- 
place, and  "they  laughed  and  sang  together 
like  two  children.'* 

And  that  life  upon  the  hills  proved  very 
nearly  ideal.  They  walked  and  planned 
and  rode  together,  and  kept  house  and 
garden  books  in  the  most  minute  fashion. 

Births  and  deaths  followed  each  other 
at  Monticello,  but  there  was  nothing  else 
to  mar  the  peace  of  that  happy  home. 
Between  husband  and  wife  there  was  no 
strife  or  discord,  not  a  jar  nor  a  rift  in 
that  unity  of  life  and  purpose  which 
welds  two  souls  into  one. 

Childish  voices  came  and  went,  but  two 
daughters  grew  to  womanhood,  and  in 
the  evening,  the  day's  duties  done,  violin 
and  harpsichord  sounded  sweet  strains 
together. 

They  reared  other  children  besides 
their  own,  taking  the  helpless  brood  of 


56          QDftreabg  of  <&rep  anfc 


Jefferson's  sister  into  their  hearts  and 
home  when  Dabney  Carr  died.  Those 
three  sons  and  three  daughters  were 
educated  with  his  own  children,  and 
lived  to  bless  him  as  a  second  father. 
One  letter  is  extant  which  was  written 
to  one  of  the  nieces  whom  Jefferson  so 
cheerfully  supported.  It  reads  as  follows  : 

"PARIS,  June  14,  1787. 

"I  send  you,  my  dear  Patsey,  the  fifteen 
livres  you  desired.  You  propose  this  to  me 
as  an  anticipation  of  five  weeks'  allowance, 
but  do  you  not  see,  my  dear,  how  imprudent 
it  is  to  lay  out  in  one  moment  what  should 
accommodate  you  for  five  weeks?  This  is 
a  departure  from  that  rule  which  I  wish  to 
see  you  governed  by,  thro'  your  whole  life, 
of  never  buying  anything  which  you  have 
not  the  money  in  your  pocket  to  pay  for. 

"Be  sure  that  it  gives  much  more  pain  to  the 
mind  to  be  in  debt  than  to  do  without  any 
article  whatever  which  we  may  seem  to  want. 

"The  purchase  you  have  made  is  one  I  am 
always  ready  to  make  for  you  because  it  is  my 
wish  to  see  you  dressed  always  cleanly  and  a 
little  more  than  decently;  but  apply  to  me  first 
for  the  money  before  making  the  purchase, 
if  only  to  avoid  breaking  through  your  rule. 


&age  of  fHonti  cello  57 


"  Learn  yourself  the  habit  of  adhering  vigor- 
ously to  the  rules  you  lay  down  for  yourself. 
I  will  come  for  you  about  eleven  o'clock  on 
Saturday.  Hurry  the  making  of  your  gown, 
and  also  your  redingcote.  You  will  go  with 
me  some  day  next  week  to  dine  at  the  Marquis 
Fayette.  Adieu,  my  dear  daughter, 
"Yours  affectionately, 

"In.  JEFFERSON" 

Mrs.  Jefferson's  concern  for  her  husband, 
the  loss  of  her  children,  and  the  weary 
round  of  domestic  duties  at  last  told  upon 
her  strong  constitution. 

After  the  birth  of  her  sixth  child,  Lucy 
Elizabeth,  she  sank  rapidly,  until  at  last  it 
was  plain  to  every  one,  except  the  dis- 
tracted husband,  that  she  could  never 
recover. 

Finally  the  blow  fell.  His  daughter 
Martha  wrote  of  it  as  follows: 

"Asa  nurse  no  female  ever  had  more  tender- 
ness or  anxiety.  He  nursed  my  poor  mother 
in  turn  with  Aunt  Carr,  and  her  own  sister  — 
sitting  up  with  her  and  administering  her 
medicines  and  drink  to  the  last. 

"When  at  last  he  left  his  room,  three  weeks 
after  my  mother's  death,  he  rode  out,  and 


58          Qtfjrea&a  of  <$rep  anb 


from  that  time,  he  was  incessantly  on  horse- 
back,  rambling  about   the  mountain." 

Shortly  afterward  he  received  the  ap- 
pointment of  Plenipotentiary  to  Europe,  to 
be  associated  with  Franklin  and  Adams  in 
negotiating  peace.  He  had  twice  refused 
the  same  appointment,  as  he  had  promised 
his  wife  that  he  would  never  again  enter 
public  life,  as  long  as  she  lived. 


Columbia 

SHE  comes  along  old  Ocean's  trackless 
way — 

A  warrior  scenting  conflict  from  afar 
And  fearing  not  defeat  nor  battle-scar 
Nor  all  the  might  of  wind  and  dashing 

spray; 
Her  foaming  path  to  triumph  none  may 

stay 
For  in  the  East,  there  shines  her  morning 

star; 
She  feels  her  strength  in  every  shining 

spar 
As  one  who  grasps  his  sword  and  waits 

for  day. 

Columbia,  Defender!  dost  thou  hear? 
The  clarion  challenge  sweeps  the  sea 
And  straight  toward  the  lightship  doth 

she  steer, 

Her  steadfast  pulses  sounding  jubilee; 
Arise,  Defender!  for  thy  way  is  clear 
And  all  thy  country's  heart  goes  out  to 

thee. 

59 


Storp  of  a  Daugbter's  Olove 


A  ARON  BURR  was  past-master  of 
**  what  Whistler  calls  "the  gentle  art 
of  making  enemies!"  Probably  no  man 
ever  lived  who  was  more  bitterly  hated 
or  more  fiercely  reviled.  Even  at  this  day, 
when  he  has  been  dead  more  than  half 
a  century,  his  memory  is  still  assailed. 

It  is  the  popular  impression  that  he 
was  a  villain.  Perhaps  he  was,  since 
"where  there  is  smoke,  there  must  be 
fire,"  but  happily  we  have  no  concern 
with  the  political  part  of  his  life.  What- 
ever he  may  have  been,  and  whatever 
dark  deeds  he  may  have  done,  there  still 
remains  a  redeeming  feature  which  no 
one  has  denied  him  —  his  love  for  his 
daughter,  Theodosia. 

One  must  remember  that  before  Burr 

was   two  years   old,   his  father,  mother, 
60 


3  J&ugftter'*  ILobc  61 

and  grandparents  were  all  dead.  He 
was  reared  by  an  uncle,  Timothy  Edwards, 
who  doubtless  did  his  best,  but  the  odds 
were  against  the  homeless  child.  Neither 
must  we  forget  that  he  fought  in  the 
Revolution,  bravely  and  well. 

From  his  early  years  he  was  very 
attractive  to  women.  He  was  handsome, 
distinguished,  well  dressed,  and  gifted 
in  many  ways.  He  was  generous,  ready  at 
compliments  and  gallantry,  and  possessed 
an  all-compelling  charm. 

In  the  autumn  of  1777,  his  regiment 
was  detailed  for  scouting  duty  in  New 
Jersey,  which  was  then  the  debatable 
ground  between  colonial  and  British 
armies.  In  January  of  1779,  Colonel  Bun- 
was  given  command  of  the  "lines"  in 
Westchester  County,  New  York.  It  was 
at  this  time  that  he  first  met  Mrs.  Prevost, 
the  widow  of  a  British  officer.  She  lived 
across  the  Hudson,  some  fifteen  miles 
from  shore,  and  the  river  was  patrolled 
by  the  gunboats  of  the  British,  and  the 
land  by  their  sentries. 


62  Sfjrcatjg  of  <&ttv  anti 


In  spite  of  these  difficulties,  however, 
Burr  managed  to  make  two  calls  upon 
the  lady,  although  they  were  both  neces- 
sarily informal.  He  sent  six  of  his  trusted 
soldiers  to  a  place  on  the  Hudson,  where 
there  was  an  overhanging  bank  under 
which  they  moored  a  large  boat,  well 
supplied  with  blankets  and  buffalo  robes. 
At  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  he  left 
White  Plains  on  the  smallest  and  swiftest 
horse  he  could  procure,  and  when  he 
reached  the  rendezvous,  the  horse  was 
quickly  bound  and  laid  in  the  boat.  Burr 
and  the  six  troopers  stepped  in,  and  in 
half  an  hour  they  were  across  the  ferry. 
The  horse  was  lifted  out,  and  unbound, 
and  with  a  little  rubbing  he  was  again 
ready  for  duty. 

Before  midnight,  Burr  was  at  the  house 
of  his  beloved,  and  at  four  in  the  morning 
he  came  back  to  the  troopers  awaiting 
him  on  the  river  bank,  and  the  return 
trip  was  made  in  the  same  manner. 

For  a  year  and  a  half  after  leaving  the 
army,  Burr  was  an  invalid,  but  in  July, 


9  JBaugfjter'g  Hobe  63 

1782,  he  married  Mrs.  Prevost.  She  was 
a  widow  with  two  sons,  and  was  ten  years 
older  than  her  husband.  Her  health 
was  delicate  and  she  had  a  scar  on  her 
forehead,  but  her  mind  was  finely  culti- 
vated and  her  manners  charming. 

Long  after  her  death  he  said  that  if  his 
manners  were  more  graceful  than  those  of 
some  men,  it  was  due  to  her  influence,  and 
that  his  wife  was  the  truest  woman,  and 
most  charming  lady  he  had  ever  known. 

It  has  been  claimed  by  some  that  Burr's 
married  life  was  not  a  happy  one,  but 
there  are  many  letters  still  extant  which 
passed  between  them  which  seemed  to 
prove  the  contrary.  Before  marriage  he 
did  not  often  write  to  her,  but  during  his 
absences  afterward,  the  fondest  wife  could 
have  no  reason  to  complain. 

For  instance: 

"This  morning  came  your  truly  welcome 
letter  of  Monday  evening,"  he  wrote  her  at 
one  time.  "Where  did  it  loiter  so  long?" 

"Nothing  in  my  absence  is  so  flattering  to 
me  as  your  health  and  cheerfulness.  I  then 


64          {Efjreafc*  of  &rep  anto 


contemplate  nothing  so  eagerly  as  my  return, 
amuse  myself  with  ideas  of  my  own  happiness, 
and  dwell  upon  the  sweet  domestic  joys 
which  I  fancy  prepared  for  me. 

"  Nothing  is  so  unfriendly  to  every  species  of 
enjoyment  as  melancholy.  Gloom,  however 
dressed,  however  caused,  is  incompatible  with 
friendship.  They  cannot  have  place  in  the 
mind  at  the  same  time.  It  is  the  secret,  the 
malignant  foe  of  sentiment  and  love." 

He  always  wrote  fondly  of  the  children: 

"My  love  to  the  smiling  little  girl,"  he  said 
in  one  letter.  "I  continually  plan  my  return 
with  childish  impatience,  and  fancy  a  thou- 
sand incidents  which  are  most  interesting." 

After  five  years  of  married  life  the  wife 
wrote  him  as  follows  : 

"Your  letters  always  afford  me  a  singular 
satisfaction,  a  sensation  entirely  my  own. 
This  was  peculiarly  so.  It  wrought  strange- 
ly upon  my  mind  and  spirits.  My  Aaron, 
it  was  replete  with  tenderness  and  with  the 
most  lively  affection.  I  read  and  re-read 
till  afraid  I  should  get  it  by  rote,  and  mingle 
it  with  common  ideas." 

Soon  after  Burr  entered  politics,  his 
wife  developed  cancer  of  the  most  virulent 


a  Baugfjter'sf  Hobc  65 

character.  Everything  that  money  or 
available  skill  could  accomplish  was  done 
for  her,  but  she  died  after  a  lingering  and 
painful  illness,  in  the  spring  of  1794 

They  had  lived  together  happily  for 
twelve  years,  and  he  grieved  for  her  deeply 
and  sincerely.  Yet  the  greatest  and  most 
absorbing  passion  of  his  life  was  for  his 
daughter,  Theodosia,  who  was  named  for 
her  mother  and  was  born  in  the  first  year 
of  their  marriage.  When  little  Theodosia 
was  first  laid  in  her  father's  arms,  all  that 
was  best  in  him  answered  to  her  mute 
plea  for  his  affection,  and  later,  all  that 
was  best  in  him  responded  to  her  baby 
smile. 

Between  those  two,  there  was  ever  the 
fullest  confidence,  never  tarnished  by 
doubt  or  mistrust,  and  when  all  the  world 
forsook  him,  Theodosia,  grown  to  woman- 
hood, stood  proudly  by  her  father's  side 
and  shared  his  blame  as  if  it  had  been  the 
highest  honour. 

When  she  was  a  year  or  two  old,  they 
moved  to  a  large  house  at  the  corner  of 


66          3H)teati0  of  <Srej>  anb 


Cedar  and  Nassau  Streets,  in  New  York 
City.  A  large  garden  surrounded  it  and 
there  were  grapevines  in  the  rear.  Here 
the  child  grew  strong  and  healthy,  and 
laid  the  foundations  of  her  girlish  beauty 
and  mature  charm.  When  she  was  but 
three  years  old  her  mother  wrote  to  the 
father,  saying: 

"Your  dear  little  Theodosia  cannot  hear  you 
spoken  of  without  an  apparent  melancholy; 
insomuch,  that  her  nurse  is  obliged  to  exert 
her  invention  to  divert  her,  and  myself  avoid 
the  mention  of  you  in  her  presence.  She 
was  one  whole  day  indifferent  to  everything 
but  your  name.  Her  attachment  is  not  of 
a  common  nature." 

And  again: 

"Your  dear  little  daughter  seeks  you  twenty 
times  a  day,  calls  you  to  your  meals,  and  will 
not  suffer  your  chair  to  be  filled  by  any  of 
the  family." 

The  child  was  educated  as  if  she  had 
been  a  boy.  She  learned  to  read  Latin 
and  Greek  fluently,  and  the  accomplish- 
ments of  her  time  were  not  neglected. 


<3  2iaugf)ter'd  Ho  be  67 

When  she  was  at  school,  the  father  wrote 
her  regularly,  and  did  not  allow  one  of 
her  letters  to  wait  a  day  for  its  affectionate 
answer.  He  corrected  her  spelling  and 
her  grammar,  instilled  sound  truths  into 
her  mind,  and  formed  her  habits.  From 
this  plastic  clay,  with  inexpressible  love 
and  patient  toil,  he  shaped  his  ideal 
woman. 

She  grew  into  a  beautiful  girl.  Her 
features  were  much  like  her  father's. 
She  was  petite,  graceful,  plump,  rosy, 
dignified,  and  gracious.  In  her  manner, 
there  was  a  calm  assurance — the  air  of 
mastery  over  all  situations — which  she 
doubtless  inherited  from  him. 

When  she  was  eighteen  years  of  age, 
she  married  Joseph  Alston  of  South  Caro- 
lina, and,  with  much  pain  at  parting  from 
her  father,  she  went  there  to  live,  after 
seeing  him  inaugurated  as  Jefferson's 
Vice-President.  His  only  consolation  was 
her  happiness,  and  when  he  returned 
to  New  York,  he  wrote  her  that  he 
approached  the  old  house  as  if  it  had  been 


68          {£treab*  of  &rep  anb 


the  sepulchre  of  all  his  friends.  "Dreary, 
solitary,  comfortless  —  it  was  no  longer 
home." 

After  her  mother's  death,  Theodosia 
had  been  the  lady  of  his  household  and 
reigned  at  the  head  of  his  table.  When 
he  went  back  there  was  no  loved  face 
opposite  him,  and  the  chill  and  loneliness 
struck  him  to  the  heart. 

For  three  years  after  her  marriage, 
Theodosia  was  blissfully  happy.  A  boy 
was  born  to  her,  and  was  named  Aaron 
Burr  Alston.  The  Vice-President  visited 
them  in  the  South  and  took  his  namesake 
unreservedly  into  his  heart.  "If  I  can 
see  without  prejudice,"  he  said,  "there 
never  was  a  finer  boy." 

His  last  act  before  fighting  the  duel 
with  Hamilton,  was  writing  to  his  daugh- 
ter —  a  happy,  gay,  care-free  letter,  giving 
no  hint  of  what  was  impending.  To  her 
husband  he  wrote  in  a  different  strain, 
begging  him  to  keep  the  event  from  her 
as  long  as  possible,  to  make  her  happy 
always,  and  to  encourage  her  in  those 


Hobe  69 


habits  of  study  which  he  himself  had 
taught  her. 

She  had  parted  from  him  with  no  other 
pain  in  her  heart  than  the  approaching 
separation.  When  they  met  again,  he 
was  a  fugitive  from  justice,  travel-stained 
from  his  long  journey  in  an  open  canoe, 
indicted  for  murder  in  New  York,  and  in 
New  Jersey,  although  still  President  of 
the  Senate,  and  Vice-President  of  the 
United  States. 

The  girl's  heart  ached  bitterly,  yet  no 
word  of  censure  escaped  her  lips,  and  she 
still  held  her  head  high.  When  his  Mexi- 
can scheme  was  overthrown,  Theodosia 
sat  beside  him  at  his  trial,  wearing  her 
absolute  faith,  so  that  all  the  world  might 
see. 

When  he  was  preparing  for  his  flight 
to  Europe,  Theodosia  was  in  New  York, 
and  they  met  by  night,  secretly,  at  the 
house  of  friends.  Just  before  he  sailed, 
they  spent  a  whole  night  together,  making 
the  best  of  the  little  time  that  remained 
to  them  before  the  inevitable  separation. 


70  CJjrcntig  of  <£>rep  anb  <&olb 

Early  in  June  they  parted,  little  dreaming 
that  they  should  see  each  other  no  more. 

During  the  years  of  exile,  Theodosia 
suffered  no  less  than  he.  Mr.  Alston  had 
lost  his  faith  in  Aaron  Burr,  and  the 
woman's  heart  strained  beneath  the  bur- 
den. Her  health  failed,  her  friends  shrank 
from  her,  yet  openly  and  bravely  she 
clung  to  her  father. 

Public  opinion  showed  no  signs  of 
relenting,  and  his  evil  genius  followed 
him  across  the  sea.  He  was  expelled 
from  England,  and  in  Paris  he  was  almost 
a  prisoner.  At  one  time  he  was  obliged 
to  live  upon  potatoes  and  dry  bread,  and 
his  devoted  daughter  could  not  help  him. 

He  was  despised  by  his  countrymen,  but 
Theodosia's  adoring  love  never  faltered. 
In  one  of  her  letters  she  said: 


"I  witness  your  extraordinary  fortitude 
with  new  wonder  at  every  misfortune. 
Often,  after  reflecting  on  this  subject,  you 
appear  to  me  so  superior,  so  elevated  above 
other  men — I  contemplate  you  with  such  a 
strange  mixture  of  humility,  admiration, 


a  Baugijter'a  Hobe  71 

reverence,  love,  and  pride,  that  a  very  little 
superstition  would  be  necessary  to  make 
me  worship  you  as  a  superior  being,  such 
enthusiasm  does  your  character  excite  in  me. 
"When  I  afterward  revert  to  myself,  how 
insignificant  do  my  best  qualities  appear! 
My  own  vanity  would  be  greater  if  I  had 
riot  been  placed  so  near  you,  and  yet,  my 
pride  is  in  our  relationship.  I  had  rather 
not  live  than  not  to  be  the  daughter  of 
such  a  man." 

She  wrote  to  Mrs.  Madison  and  asked 
her  to  intercede  with  the  President  for 
her  father.  The  answer  gave  the  required 
assurance,  and  she  wrote  to  her  father, 
urging  him  to  go  boldly  to  New  York 
and  resume  the  practice  of  his  profession. 
"If  worse  comes  to  worst,"  she  wrote, 
I  will  leave  everything  to  suffer  with 
you." 

He  landed  in  Boston  and  went  on  to 
New  York  in  May  of  1812,  where  his 
reception  was  better  than  he  had  hoped, 
and  where  he  soon  had  a  lucrative  practice. 
They  planned  for  him  to  come  South  in 
the  summer,  and  she  was  almost  happy 


72          {Efjreafcjs  of  <&rep  anb 


again,  when  her  child  died  and  her  mother's 
heart  was  broken. 

She  had  borne  much,  and  she  never  re- 
covered from  that  last  blow.  Her  health 
failed  rapidly,  and  though  she  was  too 
weak  to  undertake  the  trip,  she  insisted 
upon  going  to  New  York  to  see  her 
father. 

Thinking  the  voyage  might  prove  bene- 
ficial, her  husband  reluctantly  consented, 
and  passage  was  engaged  for  her  on  a 
pilot-boat  that  had  been  out  privateering, 
and  had  stopped  for  supplies  before  going 
on  to  New  York. 

The  vessel  sailed  —  and  a  storm  swept 
the  Atlantic  coast  from  Maine  to  Florida. 
It  was  supposed  that  the  ship  went  down 
off  Cape  Hatteras,  but  forty  years  after- 
ward, a  sailor,  who  died  in  Texas,  confessed 
on  his  death-bed  that  he  was  one  of  a  crew 
of  mutineers  who  took  possession  of  the 
Patriot  and  forced  the  passengers,  as  well, 
as  the  officers  and  men,  to  walk  the  plank. 
He  professed  to  remember  Mrs.  Alston 
well,  and  said  she  was  the  last  one  who 


a  Jiaugfjter'a  Hobc  73 

perished.  He  never  forgot  her  look  of 
despair  as  she  stepped  into  the  sea — with 
her  head  held  high  even  in  the  face  of 
death. 

Among  Theodosia's  papers  was  found  a 
letter  addressed  to  her  husband,  written 
at  a  time  when  she  was  weary  of  the 
struggle.  On  the  envelope  was  written: 
"My  Husband.  To  be  delivered  after 
my  death.  I  wish  this  to  be  read  imme- 
diately and  before  my  burial." 

He  never  saw  the  letter,  for  he  never  had 
the  courage  to  go  through  her  papers,  and 
after  his  death  it  was  sent  to  her  father. 
It  came  to  him  like  a  message  from  the 
grave: 

"Let  my  father  see  my  son,  sometimes," 
she  had  written.  "Do  not  be  unkind  to  him 
whom  I  have  loved  so  much,  I  beseech  of 
you.  Burn  all  my  papers  except  my  father's 
letters,  which  I  beg  you  to  return  to  him." 

A  long  time  afterward,  her  father 
married  Madame  Jumel,  a  rich  New  York 
woman  who  was  many  years  his  junior, 
but  the  alliance  was  unfortunate,  and 


74          tEfjreafca  of  <@rep  anb 


was  soon  annulled.  Through  all  the  rest  of 
his  life,  he  never  wholly  gave  up  the  hope 
that  Theodosia  might  return.  He  clung 
fondly  to  the  belief  that  she  had  been 
picked  up  by  another  ship,  and  some  day 
would  be  brought  back  to  him. 

Day  by  day,  he  haunted  the  Battery, 
anxiously  searching  the  faces  of  the  incom- 
ing passengers,  asking  some  of  them  for 
tidings  of  his  daughter,  and  always  believ- 
ing that  the  next  ship  would  bring  her  back. 

He  became  a  familiar  figure,  for  he  was 
almost  always  there  —  a  bent,  shrunken 
little  man,  white-haired,  leaning  heavily 
upon  his  cane,  asking  questions  in  a  thin 
piping  voice,  and  straining  his  dim  eyes 
forever  toward  the  unsounded  waters,  from 
whence  the  idol  of  his  heart  never  came. 

For  out  within  those  waters,  cruel,  change- 

less, 
She  sleeps,  beyond  all  rage  of  earth  or 

sea; 
A  smile  upon  her  dear  lips,  dumb,  but 

waiting, 
And  I  —  I  hear  the  sea-  voice  calling  me. 


B 


Sea^lDoice 


EYOND  the  sands  I  hear  the  sea- 
voice  calling 
With  passion  all  but  human  in  its  pain, 
While  from  my  eyes  the  bitter  tears  are 

falling, 
And  all  the  summer  land  seems  blind 

with  rain; 

For  out  within  those  waters,  cruel,  change- 
less, 
She  sleeps,  beyond  all  rage  of  earth  or 

sea, 
A  smile  upon  her  dear  lips,  dumb,  but 

waiting, 
And  I — I  hear  the  sea-voice  calling  me. 


The  tide  comes  in.     The  moonlight  flood 

and  glory 
Of  that  unresting  surge  thrill  earth  with 

bliss, 
And  I   can  hear  the  passionate  sweet 

story 

Of  waves  that  waited  round  her  for  her 
kiss. 

75 


76          QHjreafcg  of  <@rep  anb 


Sweetheart,    they  love  you;  silent  and 

unseeing, 
Old  Ocean  holds  his  court  around  you 

there, 
And  while  I  reach  out  through  the  dark 

to  find  you 

His  fingers  twine  the  sea-weed  in  your 
hair. 

The  tide  goes  out  and  in  the  dawn's  new 

splendour 
The  dreams  of  dark  first  fade,  then  pass 

away, 

And  I  awake  from  visions  soft  and  tender 

To  face  the  shuddering  agony  of  day 

For  out  within  those  waters,  cruel,  change- 

less, 
She  sleeps,  beyond  all  rage  of  earth  or 

sea; 
A  smile  upon  her  dear  lips,  dumb,  but 

waiting, 
And  I  —  I  hear  the  sea-voice  calling  me. 


Gbe  flDpsterp  of  IRanfcolpb's 
Courtsbip 

|T  is  said  that  in  order  to  know  a  man, 
one  must  begin  with  his  ancestors,  and 
the  truth  of  the  saying  is  strikingly 
exemplified  in  the  case  of  "John  Randolph 
of  Roanoke,"  as  he  loved  to  write  his 
name. 

His  contemporaries  have  told  us  what 
manner  of  man  he  was — fiery,  excitable, 
of  strong  passions  and  strong  will,  capable 
of  great  bitterness,  obstinate,  revengeful, 
and  extremely  sensitive. 

"  I  have  been  all  my  life, "  he  says,  "the 
creature  of  impulse,  the  sport  of  chance, 
the  victim  of  my  own  uncontrolled  and 
uncontrollable  sensations,  and  of  a  poetic 
temperament." 

He  was  sarcastic  to  a  degree,  proud, 
haughty,  and  subject  to  fits  of  Byronic 
77 


78          {Efjreafcg  of  <&rej>  anb 


despair  and  morbid  gloom.  For  these 
traits  we  must  look  back  to  the  Norman 
Conquest  from  which  he  traced  his  descent 
in  an  unbroken  line,  while,  on  the  side  of 
his  maternal  grandmother,  he  was  the 
seventh  in  descent  from  Pocahontas, 
the  Indian  maiden  who  married  John 
Rolfe. 

The  Indian  blood  was  evident,  even  in 
his  personal  appearance.  He  was  tall, 
slender,  and  dignified  in  his  bearing;  his 
hands  were  thin,  his  fingers  long  and 
bony;  his  face  was  dark,  sallow,  and 
wrinkled,  oval  in  shape  and  seamed  with 
lines  by  the  inward  conflict  which  forever 
raged  in  his  soul.  His  chin  was  pointed 
but  firm,  and  his  lips  were  set  ;  around  his 
mouth  were  marked  the  tiny,  almost 
imperceptible  lines  which  mean  cruelty. 
His  nose  was  aquiline,  his  ears  large  at 
the  top,  tapering  almost  to  a  point  at  the 
lobe,  and  his  forehead  unusually  high  and 
broad.  His  hair  was  soft,  and  his  skin, 
although  dark,  suffered  from  extreme  sen- 
sitiveness. 


'*  CourWfjip  79 


"There  is  no  accounting  for  thinness  of  skins 
in  different  animals,  human,  or  brute  [he  once 
said].  Mine,  I  believe  to  be  more  tender 
than  many  infants  of  a  month  old.  Indeed  I 
have  remarked  in  myself,  from  my  earliest 
recollection,  a  delicacy  or  effeminacy  of  com- 
plexion, which  but  for  a  spice  of  the  devil  in 
my  temper  would  have  consigned  me  to  the 
distaff  or  the  needle." 

"A  spice  of  the  devil"  is  mild  indeed. 
considering  that  before  he  was  four  years 
old  he  frequently  swooned  in  fits  of  passion, 
and  was  restored  to  consciousness  with 
difficulty. 

His  most  striking  feature  was  his  eyes. 
They  were  deep,  dark,  and  fiery,  filled 
with  passion  and  great  sadness  at  the 
same  time.  "When  he  first  entered  an 
assembly  of  people,"  said  one  who  knew 
him,  "they  were  the  eyes  of  the  eagle  in 
search  of  his  prey,  darting  about  from  place 
to  place  to  see  upon  whom  to  light.  When 
he  was  assailed  they  flashed  fire  and 
proclaimed  a  torrent  of  rage  within." 

The  voice  of  this  great  statesman  was 
a  rare  gift: 


8o          tEtjreabg  of  <@rep  anb 


"  One  might  live  a  hundred  years  [says  one,] 
and  never  hear  another  like  it.  The  wonder 
was  why  the  sweet  tone  of  a  woman  was  so 
harmoniously  blended  with  that  of  a  man. 
His  very  whisper  could  be  distinguished  above 
the  ordinary  tones  of  other  men.  His  voice 
was  so  singularly  clear,  distinct,  and  melodious 
that  it  was  a  positive  pleasure  to  hear  him 
articulate  anything." 

Such  was  the  man  who  swayed  the 
multitude  at  will,  punished  offenders  with 
sarcasm  and  invective,  inspired  fear  even 
in  his  equals,  and  loved  and  suffered  more 
than  any  other  prominent  man  of  his 
generation. 

He  had  many  acquaintances,  a  few 
friends,  and  three  loves  —  his  mother,  his 
brother,  and  the  beautiful  young  woman 
who  held  his  heart  in  the  hollow  of  her 
hand,  until  the  Gray  Angel,  taking  pity, 
closed  his  eyes  in  the  last  sleep. 

His  mother,  who  was  Frances  Bland, 
married  John  Randolph  in  1769,  and  John 
Randolph,  of  Roanoke,  was  their  third  son. 

Tradition  tells  us  of  the  unusual  beauty 
of  the  mother  — 


&anfcolpf)'g  Courtefjip  81 

"the  high  expanded  forehead,  the  smooth 
arched  brow ;  the  brilliant  dark  eyes ;  the  well 
defined  nose ;  the  full  round  laughing  lips ;  the 
tall  graceful  figure,  the  beautiful  dark  hair; 
an  open  cheerful  countenance — suffused  with 
that  deep,  rich  Oriental  tint  which  never 
seems  to  fade,  all  of  which  made  her  the 
most  beautiful  and  attractive  woman  of  her 
age." 

She  was  a  wife  at  sixteen,  and  at 
twenty-six  a  widow.  Three  years  after 
the  death  of  her  husband,  she  married 
St.  George  Tucker,  of  Bermuda  who 
proved  to  be  a  kind  father  to  her  children. 

In  the  winter  of  1781,  Benedict  Arnold, 
the  traitor  who  had  spread  ruin  through 
his  native  state,  was  sent  to  Virginia  on 
an  expedition  of  ravage.  He  landed  at 
the  mouth  of  the  James,  and  advanced 
toward  Petersburg.  Matoax,  Randolph's 
home,  was  directly  in  the  line  of  the 
invading  army,  so  the  family  set  out  on 
a  cold  January  morning,  and  at  night 
entered  the  home  of  Benjamin  Ward,  Jr. 

John  Randolph  was  seven  years  old, 
and  little  Maria  Ward  had  just  passed 


82          {Eijreabs  of  <&rep  anb 


her  fifth  birthday.  The  two  children 
played  together  happily,  and  in  the  boy's 
heart  was  sown  the  seed  of  that  grand 
passion  which  dominated  his  life. 

After  a  few  days,  the  family  went  on 
to  Bizarre,  a  large  estate  on  both  sides 
of  the  Appomattox,  and  here  Mrs.  Tucker 
and  her  sons  spent  the  remainder  of 
the  year,  while  her  husband  joined  General 
Greene's  army,  and  afterward,  the  force  of 
Lafayette. 

In  1788,  John  Randolph's  mother  died, 
and  his  first  grief  swept  over  him  in  an 
overwhelming  torrent.  The  boy  of  fifteen 
spent  bitter  nights,  his  face  buried  in  the 
grass,  sobbing  over  his  mother's  grave. 
Years  afterward,  he  wrote  to  a  friend, 
"I  am  a  fatalist.  I  am  all  but  friendless. 
Only  one  human  being  ever  knew  me.  She 
only  knew  me." 

He  kept  his  mother's  portrait  always  in 
his  room,  and  enshrined  her  in  loving  re- 
membrance in  his  heart.  He  had  never 
seen  his  father's  face  to  remember  it  dis- 
tinctly, and  for  a  long  time  he  wore  his 


'*  Courtefjip  83 


miniature  in  his  bosom.  In  1796,  his 
brother  Richard  died,  and  the  unexpected 
blow  crushed  him  to  earth.  More  than 
thirty  years  afterward  he  wrote  to  his 
half-brother,  Henry  St.  George  Tucker, 
the  following  note: 

"DEAR  HENRY 

"Our  poor  brother  Richard  was  born  in 
1770.  He  would  have  been  fifty-six  years 
old  the  ninth  of  this  month.  I  can  no  more. 

"J.R.  OFR." 

At  some  time  in  his  early  manhood  he 
came  into  close  relationship  with  Maria 
Ward.  She  had  been  an  attractive  child, 
and  had  grown  into  a  woman  so  beautiful 
that  Lafayette  said  her  equal  could  not 
be  found  in  North  America.  Her  hair 
was  auburn,  and  hung  in  curls  around 
her  face;  her  skin  was  exquisitely  fair; 
her  eyes  were  dark  and  eloquent.  Her 
mouth  was  well  formed;  she  was  slender, 
graceful,  and  coquettish,  well-educated, 
and  in  every  way,  charming. 

To  this  woman,  John  Randolph's  heart 
went  out  in  passionate,  adoring  love. 


84          {Efjreab*  of  &rep  anb  <&olb 

He  might  be  bitter  and  sarcastic  with 
others,  but  with  her  he  was  gentleness 
itself.  Others  might  know  him  as  a  man 
of  affairs,  keen  and  logical,  but  to  her 
he  was  only  a  lover. 

Timid  and  hesitating  at  first,  afraid 
perhaps  of  his  fiery  wooing,  Miss  Ward 
kept  him  for  some  time  in  suspense.  All 
the  treasures  of  his  mind  and  soul  were 
laid  before  her;  that  deep,  eloquent  voice 
which  moved  the  multitude  to  tears  at  its 
master's  will  was  pleading  with  a  woman 
for  her  love. 

What  wonder  that  she  yielded  at  last 
and  promised  to  marry  him?  Then  for 
a  time  everything  else  was  forgotten. 
The  world  lay  before  him  to  be  conquered 
when  he  might  choose.  Nothing  would 
be  too  great  for  him  to  accomplish — 
nothing  impossible  to  that  eager  joyous 
soul  enthroned  at  last  upon  the  greatest 
heights  of  human  happiness.  And  then — 
there  was  a  change.  He  rode  to  her  home 
one  day,  tying  his  horse  outside  as  was 
his  wont.  A  little  later  he  strode  out, 


'*  Courtstjip  85 


shaking  like  an  aspen,  his  face  white  in 
agony.  He  drew  his  knife  from  his 
pocket,  cut  the  bridle  of  his  horse,  dug 
his  spurs  into  the  quivering  sides,  and 
was  off  like  the  wind.  What  battle  was 
fought  out  on  that  wild  ride  is  known  only 
to  John  Randolph  and  his  God.  What 
torture  that  fiery  soul  went  through,  no 
human  being  can  ever  know.  When  he 
came  back  at  night,  he  was  so  changed 
that  no  one  dared  to  speak  to  him. 

He  threw  himself  into  the  political 
arena  in  order  to  save  his  reason.  Often 
at  midnight,  he  would  rise  from  his  uneasy 
bed,  buckle  on  his  pistols,  and  ride  like 
mad  over  the  country,  returning  only 
when  his  horse  was  spent.  He  never 
saw  Miss  Ward  again,  and  she  married 
Peyton  Randolph,  the  son  of  Edmund 
Randolph,  who  was  Secretary  of  State 
under  Washington. 

The  entire  affair  is  shrouded  in  mystery. 
There  is  not  a  letter,  nor  a  single  scrap 
of  paper,  nor  a  shred  of  evidence  upon 
which  to  base  even  a  presumption.  The 


86          QHbrea&g  of  <&rep  anfc  <&olb 

separation  was  final  and  complete,  and 
the  white-hot  metal  of  the  man's  nature 
was  gradually  moulded  into  that  strange 
eccentric  being  whose  foibles  are  so  well 
known. 

Only  once  did  Randolph  lift  even  a 
corner  of  the  veil.  In  a  letter  to  his 
dearest  friend  he  spoke  of  her  as: 

"One  I  loved  better  than  my  own  soul,  or 
Him  who  created  it.  My  apathy  is  not 
natural,  but  superinduced.  There  was  a 
volcano  under  my  ice,  but  it  burnt  out,  and 
a  face  of  desolation  has  come  on,  not  to  be 
rectified  in  ages,  could  my  life  be  prolonged 
to  patriarchal  longevity. 

"The  necessity  of  loving  and  being  loved 
was  never  felt  by  the  imaginary  beings  of 
Rousseau  and  Byron's  creation,  more  im- 
periously than  by  myself.  My  heart  was 
offered  with  a  devotion  that  knew  no  reserve. 
Long  an  object  of  proscription  and  treachery, 
I  have  at  last,  more  mortifying  to  the  pride  of 
man,  become  an  object  of  utter  indifference." 

The  brilliant  statesman  would  doubtless 
have  had  a  large  liberty  of  choice  among 
the  many  beautiful  women  of  his  circle, 
but  he  never  married,  and  there  is  no 


i\anfcolpb'£  Courtship  87 

record  of  any  entanglement.  To  the  few 
women  he  deemed  worthy  of  his  respect 
and  admiration,  he  was  deferential  and 
even  gallant.  In  one  of  his  letters  to  a 
young  relative  he  said: 

"Love  to  god-son  Randolph  and  respectful 
compliments  to  Mrs.  R.  She  is  indeed  a  fine 
woman,  one  for  whom  I  have  felt  a  true 
regard,  unmixed  with  the  foible  of  another 
passion. 

"Fortunately  or  unfortunately  for  me,  when 
I  knew  her,  I  bore  a  charmed  heart.  Nothing 
else  could  have  preserved  me  from  the  full 
force  Oi  -er  attractions." 

For  much  of  the  time  after  his  dis- 
appointment, he  lived  alone  with  his 
servants,  solaced  as  far  as  possible  by 
those  friends  of  all  mankind — books. 
When  the  spirit  moved  him,  he  would 
make  visits  to  the  neighbouring  planta- 
tions, sometimes  dressed  in  white  flannel 
trousers,  coat,  and  vest,  and  with  white 
paper  wrapped  around  his  beaver  hat! 
When  he  presented  himself  in  this  manner, 
riding  horseback,  with  his  dark  eyes  burn- 


88          tCijrcatis  of  (Seep  anb 


ing,  he  was  said  to  have  presented  "a 
most  ghostly  appearance!" 

An  old  lady  who  lived  for  years  on  the 
banks  of  the  Staunton,  near  Randolph's 
solitary  home,  tells  a  pathetic  story  : 

She  was  sitting  alone  in  her  room  in  the 
dead  of  winter,  when  a  beautiful  woman, 
pale  as  a  ghost,  dressed  entirely  in  white, 
suddenly  appeared  before  her,  and  began 
to  talk  about  Mr.  Randolph,  saying  he 
was  her  lover  and  would  marry  her  yet,  as 
he  had  never  proved  false  to  his  plighted 
faith.  She  talked  of  him  incessantly, 
like  one  deranged,  until  a  young  gentleman 
came  by  the  house,  leading  a  horse  with 
a  side-saddle  on.  She  rushed  out,  and 
asked  his  permission  to  ride  a  few  miles. 
Greatly  to  his  surprise,  she  mounted  with- 
out assistance,  and  sat  astride  like  a  man. 
He  was  much  embarrassed,  but  had  no 
choice  except  to  escort  her  to  the  end  of 
her  journey. 

The  old  lady  who  tells  of  this  strange 
experience  says  that  the  young  woman 
several  times  visited  Mr.  Randolph,  al- 


Kanbolptj's  Courtship  89 

ways  dressed  in  white  and  usually  in 
the  dead  of  winter.  He  always  put  her 
on  a  horse  and  sent  her  away  with  a  ser- 
vant to  escort  her. 

In  his  life  there  were  but  two  women — 
his  mother  and  Maria  Ward.  While 
his  lips  were  closed  on  the  subject  of  his 
love,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  avow  his 
misery.  "I  too  am  wretched,"  he  would 
say  with  infinite  pathos;  and  after  her 
death,  he  spoke  of  Maria  Ward  as  his 
"angel." 

In  a  letter  written  sometime  after  she 
died,  he  said,  strangely  enough :  "I  loved, 
aye,  and  was  loved  again,  not  wisely, 
but  too  well." 

His  brilliant  career  was  closed  when 
he  was  sixty  years  old,  and  in  his  last 
illness,  during  delirium,  the  name  of  Maria 
was  frequently  heard  by  those  who  were 
anxiously  watching  with  him.  But,  true 
to  himself  and  to  her,  even  when  his 
reason  was  dethroned,  he  said  nothing 
more. 

He  was  buried  on  his  own  plantation, 


in  the  midst  of  "that  boundless  contiguity 
of  shade,"  with  his  secret  locked  forever 
in  his  tortured  breast.  "John  Randolph 
of  Roanoke,"  was  all  the  title  he  claimed; 
but  the  history  of  those  times  teaches 
us  that  he  was  more  than  that — he  was 
John  Randolph,  of  the  Republic. 


Ibow  preeibent  Jackson  Udon 
Ibis  mite 

|N  October  of  1788,  a.  little  company  of 
immigrants  arrived  in  Tennessee.  The 
star  of  empire,  which  is  said  to  move 
westward,  had  not  yet  illumined  Nashville, 
and  it  was  one  of  the  dangerous  points 
"on  the  frontier." 

The  settlement  was  surrounded  on  all 
sides  by  hostile  Indians.  Men  worked 
in  the  fields,  but  dared  not  go  out  to  their 
daily  task  without  being  heavily  armed. 
When  two  men  met,  and  stopped  for 
a  moment  to  talk,  they  often  stood  back 
to  back,  with  their  rifles  cocked  ready 
for  instant  use.  No  one  stooped  to  drink 
from  a  spring  unless  another  guarded 
him,  and  the  women  were  always  attended 
by  an  armed  force. 

Col.  John  Donelson  had  built  for  himself 
91 


of  <0rep  anb  (Solfo 


a  blockhouse  of  unusual  size  and  strength, 
and  furnished  it  comfortably;  but  while 
surveying  a  piece  of  land  near  the  village, 
he  was  killed  by  the  savages,  and  his 
widow  left  to  support  herself  as  best  she 
could. 

A  married  daughter  and  her  husband 
lived  with  her,  but  it  was  necessary  for 
her  to  take  other  boarders.  One  day 
there  was  a  vigorous  rap  upon  the  stout 
door  of  the  blockhouse,  and  a  young  man 
whose  name  was  Andrew  Jackson  was 
admitted.  Shortly  afterward,  he  took 
up  his  abode  as  a  regular  boarder  at  the 
Widow  Donelson's. 

The  future  President  was  then  twenty- 
one  or  twenty-two.  He  was  tall  and 
slender,  with  every  muscle  developed 
to  its  utmost  strength.  He  had  an 
attractive  face,  pleasing  manners,  and 
made  himself  agreeable  to  every  one  in 
the  house. 

The  dangers  of  the  frontier  were  but 
minor  incidents  in  his  estimation,  for  "des- 
perate courage  makes  one  a  majority," 


feotu  3Tack*on  IKon  &te  ZHif  e        93 

and  he  had  courage.  When  he  was  but 
thirteen  years  of  age,  he  had  boldly  defied 
a  British  officer  who  had  ordered  him  to 
clean  some  cavalry  boots. 

"Sir,"  said  the  boy,  "I  am  a  prisoner  of 
war,  and  I  claim  to  be  treated  as  such!" 

With  an  oath  the  officer  drew  his  sword, 
and  struck  at  the  child's  head.  He  parried 
the  blow  with  his  left  arm,  but  received 
a  severe  wound  on  his  head  and  another 
on  his  arm,  the  scars  of  which  he  always 
carried. 

The  protecting  presence  of  such  a  man 
was  welcome  to  those  who  dwelt  in  the 
blockhouse — Mrs.  Donelson,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Robards,  and  another  boarder,  John  Over- 
ton.  Mrs.  Donelson  was  a  good  cook 
and  a  notable  housekeeper,  while  her 
daughter  was  said  to  be  "the  best  story 
teller,  the  best  dancer,  the  sprightliest 
companion,  and  the  most  dashing  horse- 
woman in  the  western  country. " 

Jackson,  as  the  only  licensed  lawyer 
in  that  part  of  Tennessee,  soon  had  plenty 
of  business  on  his  hands,  and  his  life  in 


94  Qftjreatis  of  <&rep  antj 


the  blockhouse  was  a  happy  one  until 
he  learned  that  the  serpent  of  jealousy 
lurked  by  that  fireside. 

Mrs.  Robards  was  a  comely  brunette, 
and  her  dusky  beauty  carried  with  it  an 
irresistible  appeal.  Jackson  soon  learned 
that  Captain  Robards  was  unreasonably 
and  even  insanely  jealous  of  his  wife,  and 
he  learned  from  John  Overton  that  before 
his  arrival  there  had  been  a  great  deal  of 
unhappiness  because  of  this. 

At  one  time  Captain  Robards  had 
written  to  Mrs.  Donelson  to  take  her 
daughter  home,  as  he  did  not  wish  to 
live  with  her  any  longer;  but  through 
the  efforts  of  Mr.  Overton  a  reconciliation 
had  been  effected  between  the  pair,  and 
they  were  still  living  together  at  Mrs. 
Donelson's  when  Jackson  went  there  to 
board. 

In  a  short  time,  however,  Robards  be- 
came violently  jealous  of  Jackson  and 
talked  abusively  to  his  wife,  even  in  the 
presence  of  her  mother  and  amidst  the 
tears  of  both.  Once  more  Overton  inter- 


f  ackaon  I®  on  2£te  Kttf  e         95 


fered,  assured  Robards  that  his  suspicions 
were  groundless,  and  reproached  him  for 
his  unmanly  conduct. 

It  was  all  in  vain,  however,  and  the 
family  was  in  as  unhappy  a  state  as  before, 
when  they  were  living  with  the  Captain's 
mother  who  had  always  taken  the  part  of 
her  daughter-in-law. 

At  length  Overton  spoke  to  Jackson 
about  it,  telling  him  it  was  better  not  to 
remain  where  his  presence  made  so  much 
trouble,  and  offered  to  go  with  him  to 
another  boarding-place.  Jackson  readily 
assented,  though  neither  of  them  knew 
where  to  go,  and  said  that  he  would  talk 
to  Captain  Robards. 

The  men  met  near  the  orchard  fence, 
and  Jackson  remonstrated  with  the 
Captain  who  grew  violently  angry  and 
threatened  to  strike  him.  Jackson  told 
him  that  he  would  not  advise  him  to  try 
to  fight,  but  if  he  insisted,  he  would  try 
to  give  him  satisfaction.  Nothing  came 
of  the  discussion,  however,  as  Robards 
seemed  willing  to  take  Jackson's  advice 


96          SDijrea&g  a!  <0rep  anti 


and  did  not  dare  to  strike  him.  But  the 
coward  continued  to  abuse  his  wife,  and 
insulted  Jackson  at  every  opportunity. 
The  result  was  that  the  young  lawyer 
left  the  house. 

A  few  months  later,  the  still  raging  hus- 
band left  his  wife  and  went  to  Kentucky, 
which  was  then  a  part  of  Virginia.  Soon 
afterward,  Mrs.  Robards  went  to  live 
with  her  sister,  Mrs.  Hay,  and  Overton 
returned  to  Mrs.  Donelson's. 

In  the  following  autumn  there  was  a 
rumour  that  Captain  Robards  intended  to 
return  to  Tennessee  and  take  his  wife  to 
Kentucky,  at  which  Mrs.  Donelson  and 
her  daughter  were  greatly  distressed.  Mrs. 
Robards  wept  bitterly,  and  said  it  was  im- 
possible for  her  to  live  peaceably  with  her 
husband  as  she  had  tried  it  twice  and  failed. 
She  determined  to  go  down  the  river  to 
Natchez,  to  a  friend,  and  thus  avoid  her 
husband,  who  she  said  had  threatened  to 
haunt  her. 

When  Jackson  heard  of  this  arrange- 
ment he  was  very  much  troubled,  for  he 


ZSon  &is  Klife        97 


felt  that  he  had  been  the  unwilling  cause 
of  the  young  wife's  unhappiness,  although 
entirely  innocent  of  any  wrong  intention. 
So  when  Mrs.  Robards  had  fully  deter- 
mined to  undertake  the  journey  to  Natchez, 
accompanied  only  by  Colonel  Stark  and 
his  family,  he  offered  to  go  with  them  as 
an  additional  protection  against  the  In- 
dians who  were  then  especially  active,  and 
his  escort  was  very  gladly  accepted.  The 
trip  was  made  in  safety,  and  after  seeing 
the  lady  settled  with  her  friends,  he  re- 
turned to  Nashville  and  resumed  his  law 
practice. 

At  that  time  there  was  no  divorce  law 
in  Virginia,  and  each  separate  divorce 
required  the  passage  of  an  act  of  the 
legislature  before  a  jury  could  consider 
the  case.  In  the  winter  of  1791,  Captain 
Robards  obtained  the  passage  of  such 
an  act,  authorising  the  court  of  Mercer 
County  to  act  upon  his  divorce.  Mrs. 
Robards,  hearing  of  this,  understood  that 
the  passage  of  the  act  was,  in  itself, 
divorce,  and  that  she  was  a  free  woman. 


98          QH)reafe£  of  <&rep  nub 


Jackson  also  took  the  divorce  for  granted. 
Every  one  in  the  country  so  understood 
the  matter,  and  at  Natchez,  in  the  follow- 
ing summer,  the  two  were  married. 

They  returned  to  Nashville,  settled 
down,  and  Jackson  began  in  earnest  the 
career  that  was  to  land  him  in  the  White 
House,  the  hero  of  the  nation. 

In  December  of  1793,  more  than  two 
years  after  their  marriage,  their  friend 
Overton  learned  that  the  legislature  had 
not  granted  a  divorce,  but  had  left  it 
for  the  court  to  do  so.  Jackson  was 
much  chagrined  when  he  heard  of  this, 
and  it  was  with  great  difficulty  that  he 
was  brought  to  believe  it.  In  January 
of  1794,  when  the  decree  was  finally 
obtained,  they  were  married  again. 

It  is  difficult  to  excuse  Jackson  for 
marrying  the  woman  without  positive 
and  absolute  knowledge  of  her  divorce. 
He  was  a  lawyer,  and  could  have  learned 
the  facts  of  the  case,  even  though  there 
was  no  established  mail  service.  Each 
of  them  had  been  entirely  innocent  of 


Men  &>ts  fc&tfc        99 


any  intentional  wrong-doing,  and  their 
long  life  together,  their  great  devotion 
to  each  other,  and  General  Jackson's 
honourable  career,  forever  silenced  the 
spiteful  calumny  of  his  rivals  and  enemies 
of  early  life. 

In  his  eyes  his  wife  was  the  soul  of 
honour  and  purity;  he  loved  and  rever- 
enced her  as  a  man  loves  and  reverences 
but  one  woman  in  his  lifetime,  and  for 
thirty-seven  years  he  kept  a  pair  of  pistols 
loaded  for  the  man  who  should  dare  to 
breathe  her  name  without  respect. 

The  famous  pistol  duel  with  Dickinson 
was  the  result  of  a  quarrel  which  had  its 
beginning  in  a  remark  reflecting  upon 
Mrs.  Jackson,  and  Dickinson,  though  a 
crack  shot,  paid  for  it  with  his  life. 

Several  of  Dickinson's  friends  sent 
a  memorial  to  the  proprietors  of  the 
Impartial  Review,  asking  that  the  next 
number  of  the  paper  appear  in  mourning, 
"out  of  respect  for  the  memory,  and 
regret  for  the  untimely  death,  of  Mr. 
Charles  Dickinson." 


ioo        tEfjreaba  of  &rep  anfc 


"Old  Hickory"  heard  of  this  movement, 
and  wrote  to  the  proprietors,  asking  that 
the  names  of  the  gentlemen  making  the 
request  be  published  in  the  memorial 
number  of  the  paper.  This  also  was 
agreed  to,  and  it  is  significant  that  twenty- 
six  of  the  seventy-three  men  who  had 
signed  the  petition  called  and  erased 
their  names  from  the  document. 

"The  Hermitage"  at  Nashville,  which 
is  still  a  very  attractive  spot  for  visitors, 
was  built  solely  to  please  Mrs.  Jackson, 
and  there  she  dispensed  gracious  hospi- 
tality. Not  merely  a  guest  or  two,  but 
whole  families,  came  for  weeks  at  a  time, 
for  the  mistress  of  the  mansion  was  fond 
of  entertaining,  and  proved  herself  a 
charming  hostess.  She  had  a  good  mem- 
ory, had  passed  through  many  and  greatly 
varied  experiences,  and  above  all  she  had 
that  rare  faculty  which  is  called  tact. 

Though  her  husband's  love  for  her 
was  evident  to  every  one,  yet,  in  the 
presence  of  others,  he  always  maintained 
a  dignified  reserve.  He  never  spoke  of  her 


101 


as  "Rachel,"  nor  addressed  her  as  "My 
Dear."  It  was  always  "Mrs.  Jackson," 
or  "wife."  She  always  called  him  "Mr. 
Jackson,"  never  "Andrew"  nor  "General." 

Both  of  them  greatly  desired  children, 
but  this  blessing  was  denied  them;  so  they 
adopted  a  boy,  the  child  of  Mrs.  Jackson's 
brother,  naming  him  "  Andrew  Jackson,  " 
and  bringing  him  up  as  their  own  child. 

The  lady's  portrait  shows  her  to  have 
been  wonderfully  attractive.  It  does  not 
reveal  the  dusky  Oriental  tint  of  her 
skin,  the  ripe  red  of  her  lips,  nor  the 
changing  lights  in  her  face,  but  it  shows 
the  high  forehead,  the  dark  soft  hair, 
the  fine  eyes,  and  the  tempting  mouth 
which  was  smiling,  yet  serene.  A  lace 
head-dress  is  worn  over  the  waving  hair, 
and  the  filmy  folds  fall  softly  over  neck 
and  bosom. 

When  Jackson  was  elected  to  the 
Presidency,  the  ladies  of  Nashville  or- 
ganized themselves  into  sewing  circles 
to  prepare  Mrs.  Jackson's  wardrobe.  It 
was  a  labour  of  love.  On  December  23, 


102        {Eljrcafcfi  of  <&rep  anb  <&olb 


1828,  there  was  to  be  a  grand  banquet 
in  Jackson's  honour,  and  the  devoted 
women  of  their  home  city  had  made 
a  beautiful  gown  for  his  wife  to  wear  at 
the  dinner.  At  sunrise  the  preparations 
began.  The  tables  were  set,  the  dining- 
room  decorated,  and  the  officers  and  men 
of  the  troop  that  was  to  escort  the  Presi- 
dent-elect were  preparing  to  go  to  the  home 
and  attend  him  on  the  long  ride  into  the 
city.  Their  horses  were  saddled  and  in 
readiness  at  the  place  of  meeting.  As  the 
bugle  sounded  the  summons  to  mount,  a 
breathless  messenger  appeared  on  a  horse 
flecked  with  foam.  Mrs.  Jackson  had 
died  of  heart  disease  the  evening  before. 

The  festival  was  changed  to  a  funeral, 
and  the  trumpets  and  drums  that  were  to 
have  sounded  salute  were  muffled  in 
black.  All  decorations  were  taken  down, 
and  the  church  bells  tolled  mournfully. 
The  grief  of  the  people  was  beyond  speech. 
Each  one  felt  a  personal  loss. 

At  the  home  the  blow  was  terrible. 
The  lover-husband  would  not  leave  his 


103 


wife.  In  those  bitter  hours  the  highest 
gift  of  his  countrymen  was  an  empty 
triumph,  for  his  soul  was  wrecked  with 
the  greatness  of  his  loss. 

When  she  was  buried  at  the  foot  of  a 
slope  in  the  garden  of  "The  Hermitage," 
his  bereavement  came  home  to  him  with 
crushing  strength.  Back  of  the  open  grave 
stood  a  great  throng  of  people,  waiting  in 
the  wintry  wind.  The  sun  shone  brightly 
on  the  snow,  but  "The  Hermitage"  was 
desolate,  for  its  light  and  laughter  and  love 
were  gone.  The  casket  was  carried  down 
the  slope,  and  a  long  way  behind  it  came 
the  General,  slowly  and  almost  helpless, 
between  two  of  his  friends. 

The  people  of  Nashville  had  made  ready 
to  greet  him  with  the  blare  of  bugles, 
waving  flags,  the  clash  of  cymbals,  and 
resounding  cheers.  It  was  for  the  Presi- 
dent-elect —  the  hero  of  the  war.  The 
throng  that  stood  behind  the  open  grave 
greeted  him  with  sobs  and  tears  —  not 
the  President-elect,  but  the  man  bowed 
by  his  sixty  years,  bareheaded,  with  his 


104         ^fjreafca  of  <0re|>  antJ 


gray  hair  rumpled  in  the  wind,  staggering 
toward  them  in  the  throes  of  his  bitterest 
grief. 

In  that  one  night  he  had  grown  old. 
He  looked  like  a  man  stricken  beyond 
all  hope.  When  his  old  friends  gathered 
around  him  with  the  tears  streaming  down 
their  cheeks,  wringing  his  hand  in  silent 
sympathy,  he  could  make  no  response. 

He  was  never  the  same  again,  though  his 
strength  of  will  and  his  desperate  courage 
fought  with  this  infinite  pain.  For  the 
rest  of  his  life  he  lived  as  she  would  have 
had  him  live  —  guided  his  actions  by  the 
thought  of  what  his  wife,  if  living,  would 
have  had  him  do  —  loving  her  still,  with  the 
love  that  passeth  all  understanding. 

He  declined  the  sarcophagus  fit  for  an 
emperor,  that  he  might  be  buried  like  a 
simple  citizen,  in  the  garden  by  her  side. 

His  last  words  were  of  her  —  his  last  look 
rested  upon  her  portrait  that  hung  oppo- 
site his  bed,  and  if  there  be  dreaming  in 
the  dark,  the  vision  of  her  brought  him 
peace  at  last. 


Bachelor  preeifcent's  1o\>alt\> 
to  a 


T^HE  fifteenth  President  was  remarkable 
•*•  among  the  men  of  his  time  for  his 
life-long  fidelity  to  one  woman,  for  since 
the  days  of  knight-errantry  such  devotion 
has  been  as  rare  as  it  is  beautiful.  The 
young  lawyer  came  of  Scotch-Irish  parent- 
age, and  to  this  blending  of  blood  were 
probably  in  part  due  his  deep  love  and 
steadfastness.  There  was  rather  more  of 
the  Irish  than  of  the  Scotch  in  his  face,  and 
when  we  read  that  his  overflowing  spirits 
were  too  much  for  the  college  in  which  he 
had  been  placed,  and  that,  for  "reasons 
of  public  policy,"  the  honours  which  he 
had  earned  were  on  commencement  day 
given  to  another,  it  is  evident  that  he  may 
sometimes  have  felt  that  he  owed  allegiance 

primarily  to  the  Emerald  Isle. 
105 


io6        tCfjrcalisf  of  <&rep  anb 


Like  others,  who  have  been  capable  of 
deep  and  lasting  passion,  James  Buchanan 
loved  his  mother.  Among  his  papers 
there  was  found  a  fragment  of  an  auto- 
biography, which  ended  in  1816,  when 
the  writer  was  only  twenty-five  years 
of  age.  He  says  his  father  was  "a  kind 
father,  a  sincere  friend,  and  an  honest 
and  religious  man,"  but  on  the  subject 
of  his  mother  he  waxes  eloquent  : 

"Considering  her  limited  opportunities  in 
early  life  [he  writes],  my  mother  was  a 
remarkable  woman.  The  daughter  of  a 
country  fanner,  engaged  in  household  em- 
ployment from  early  life  until  after  my 
father's  death,  she  yet  found  time  to  read 
much,  and  to  reflect  deeply  on  what  she 
read. 

She  had  a  great  fondness  for  poetry,  and 
could  repeat  with  ease  all  the  passages  in  her 
favorite  authors  which  struck  her  fancy. 
These  were  Milton,  Pope,  Young,  Cowper, 
and  Thompson. 

I  do  not  think,  at  least  until  a  late  period 
in  life,  she  had  ever  read  a  criticism  on  any 
one  of  these  authors,  and  yet  such  was  the 
correctness  of  her  natural  taste,  that  she 
had  selected  for  herself,  and  could  repeat, 


JSacijelor  $reaifcent'*  Hopaltp  107 


every  passage  in  them  which  has  been  ad- 
mired. .  .  . 

"For  her  sons,  as  they  grew  up  successively, 
she  was  a  delightful  and  instructive  compan- 
ion. .  .  .  She  was  a  woman  of  great  firmness 
of  character,  and  bore  the  afflictions  of  her 
later  life  with  Christian  philosophy.  .  .  . 
It  was  chiefly  to  her  influence,  that  her  sons 
were  indebted  for  a  liberal  education.  Under 
Providence  I  attribute  any  little  distinction 
which  I  may  have  acquired  in  the  world  to 
the  blessing  which  He  conferred  upon  me  in 
granting  me  such  a  mother." 

If  Elizabeth  Buchanan  could  have  read 
these  words,  doubtless  she  would  have 
felt  fully  repaid  for  her  many  years  of 
toil,  self-sacrifice,  and  devotion. 

After  the  young  man  left  the  legislature 
and  took  up  the  practice  of  law,  with  the 
intention  of  spending  his  life  at  the  bar, 
he  became  engaged  to  Anne  Coleman,  the 
daughter  of  Robert  Coleman,  of  Lancaster. 

She  is  said  to  have  been  an  unusu- 
ally beautiful  girl,  quiet,  gentle,  modest, 
womanly,  and  extremely  sensitive.  The 
fine  feelings  of  a  delicately  organized 
nature  may  easily  become  either  a  bless- 


io8        {Efjreafc*  of  &rep  anfc 


ing  or  a  curse,  and  on  account  of  her 
sensitiveness  there  was  a  rupture  for  which 
neither  can  be  very  greatly  blamed. 

Mr.  Coleman  approved  of  the  engage- 
ment, and  the  happy  lover  worked  hard 
to  make  a  home  for  the  idol  of  his  heart. 
One  day,  out  of  the  blue  sky  a  thunderbolt 
fell.  He  received  a  note  from  Miss 
Coleman  asking  him  to  release  her  from 
her  engagement. 

There  was  no  explanation  forthcoming, 
and  it  was  not  until  long  afterward  that 
he  discovered  that  busy-bodies  and  gossips 
had  gone  to  Miss  Coleman  with  stories 
concerning  him  which  had  no  foundation 
save  in  their  mischief  -making  imaginations, 
and  which  she  would  not  repeat  to  him. 
After  all  his  efforts  at  re-establishing  the 
old  relations  had  proved  useless,  he  wrote 
to  her  that  if  it  were  her  wish  to  be  re- 
leased from  her  engagement  he  could 
but  submit,  as  he  had  no  desire  to  hold 
her  against  her  will. 

The  break  came  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  summer  of  1819,  when  he  was  twenty- 


JSarfjelor  ^retfibent'*  3Lopaltp    109 


eight  years  old  and  she  was  in  her  twenty- 
third  year.  He  threw  himself  into  his 
work  with  renewed  energy,  and  later  on 
she  went  to  visit  friends  in  Philadelphia. 
Though  she  was  too  proud  to  admit  it, 
there  was  evidence  that  the  beautiful 
and  high-spirited  girl  was  suffering  from 
heartache.  On  the  ninth  of  December, 
she  died  suddenly,  and  her  body  was 
brought  home  just  a  week  after  she  left 
Lancaster.  The  funeral  took  place  the 
next  day,  Sunday,  and  to  the  suffering 
father  of  the  girl,  the  heart-broken  lover 
wrote  a  letter  which  in  simple  pathos 
stands  almost  alone.  It  is  the  only 
document  on  this  subject  which  remains, 
but  in  these  few  lines  is  hidden  a  tragedy  : 

"  LANCASTER,  December  10,  1819. 
"MY  DEAR  SIR: 

"You  have  lost  a  child,  a  dear,  dear  child. 
I  have  lost  the  only  earthly  object  of  my 
affections,  without  whom,  life  now  presents 
to  me  a  dreary  blank.  My  prospects  are 
all  cut  off,  and  I  feel  that  my  happiness  will 
be  buried  with  her  in  her  grave. 

"It  is  now  no  time  for  explanation,  but  the 
time  will  come  when  you  will  discover  that 


i  io        {EijreaW  of  (Step  anfc 


she,  as  well  as  I,  has  been  greatly  abused. 
God  forgive  the  authors  of  it!  My  feelings 
of  resentment  against  them,  whoever  they 
may  be,  are  buried  in  the  dust. 

"I  have  now  one  request  to  make,  and  for 
the  love  of  God,  and  of  your  dear  departed 
daughter,  whom  I  loved  infinitely  more  than 
any  human  being  could  love,  deny  me  not. 
Afford  me  the  melancholy  pleasure  of  seeing 
her  body  before  its  interment.  I  would  not, 
for  the  world,  be  denied  this  request. 

"  I  might  make  another,  but  from  the  mis- 
representations that  have  been  made  to  you, 
I  am  almost  afraid.  I  would  like  to  follow 
her  remains,  to  the  grave  as  a  mourner.  I 
would  like  to  convince  the  world,  I  hope 
yet  to  convince  you,  that  she  was  infinitely 
dearer  to  me  than  life. 

"  I  may  sustain  the  shock  of  her  death,  but 
I  feel  that  happiness  has  fled  from  me  for- 
ever. The  prayer  which  I  make  to  God 
without  ceasing  is,  that  I  yet  may  be  able 
to  show  my  veneration  for  the  memory  of 
my  dear,  departed  saint,  by  my  respect  and 
attachment  for  her  surviving  friends. 

"  May  Heaven  bless  you  and  enable  you 
to  bear  the  shock  with  the  fortitude  of  a 
Christian. 

"  I  am  forever,  your  sincere  and  grateful 
friend, 

"JAMES  BUCHANAN." 


in 


The  father  returned  the  letter  unopened 
and  without  comment.  Death  had  only 
widened  the  breach.  It  would  have  been 
gratifying  to  know  that  the  two  lovers 
were  together  for  a  moment  at  the  end. 

For  such  a  meeting  as  that  there  are  no 
words  but  Edwin  Arnold's  : 

"But  he  —  who  loved  her  too  well  to  dread 
The  sweet,  the  stately,  the  beautiful  dead  — 
He  lit  his  lamp,  and  took  the  key, 
And  turn'd  it  !  —  alone  again  —  he  and  she  !  " 

For  him  there  was  not  even  a  glimpse 
of  her  as  she  lay  in  her  coffin,  nor  a  whisper 
that  some  day,  like  Evelyn  Hope,  sue 
might  "wake,  and  remember  and  under- 
stand." With  that  love  that  asks  only 
for  the  right  to  serve,  and  feeling  perhaps 
that  no  pen  could  do  her  justice,  he 
obtained  permission  to  write  a  paragraph 
for  a  local  paper,  which  was  published  un- 
signed: 

"Departed  this  life,  on  Thursday  morning 
last,  in  the  twenty-third  year  of  her  age, 
while  on  a  visit  to  friends  in  the  city  of 
Philadelphia,  Miss  Anne  C.  Coleman,  daugh- 


of  &rep  anb 


ter  of  Robert  Coleman,  Esquire  of  this  city. 

It  rarely  falls  to  our  lot  to  shed  a  tear  over 
the  remains  of  one  so  much  and  so  deservedly 
beloved  as  was  the  deceased.  She  was 
everything  which  the  fondest  parent,  or  the 
fondest  friend  could  have  wished  her  to  be. 

Although  she  was  young  and  beautiful 
and  accomplished,  and  the  smiles  of  fortune 
shone  upon  her,  yet  her  native  modesty  and 
worth  made  her  unconscious  of  her  own 
attractions.  Her  heart  was  the  seat  of  all 
the  softer  virtues  which  ennoble  and  dignify 
the  character  of  woman. 

She  has  now  gone  to  a  world,  where,  in 
the  bosom  of  her  God,  she  will  be  happy 
with  congenial  spirits.  May  the  memory 
of  her  virtues  be  ever  green  in  the  hearts 
of  her  surviving  friends.  May  her  mild 
spirit,  which  on  earth  still  breathes  peace  and 
good  will,  be  their  guardian  angel  to  pre- 
serve them  from  the  faults  to  which  she  was 
ever  a  stranger. 

"The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread 
Is  cord,  is  cable,  to  man's  tender  tie 
On  earthly  bliss  —  it  breaks  at  every  breeze." 

How  deeply  he  felt  her  death  is  shown 
by  extracts  from  a  letter  written  to  him  by 
a  friend  in  the  latter  part  of  December: 


IBacfjelot  -present's;  Hopaltp    113 


"  I  am  writing,  I  know  not  why,  and  perhaps 
had  better  not.  I  write  only  to  speak  of  the 
awful  visitation  of  Providence  that  has 
fallen  upon  you,  and  how  deeply  I  feel  it.  ... 
I  trust  to  your  philosophy  and  courage,  and 
to  the  elasticity  of  spirits  natural  to  most 
young  men.  .  .  . 

The  sun  will  shine  again,  though  a  man 
enveloped  in  gloom  always  thinks  the  dark- 
ness is  to  be  eternal.  Do  you  remember 
the  Spanish  anecdote? 

A  lady  who  had  lost  a  favorite  child  re- 
mained for  months  sunk  in  sullen  sorrow  and 
despair.  Her  confessor,  one  morning  visited 
her,  and  found  her,  as  usual  immersed  in 
gloom  and  grief.  'What,'  said  he,  'Have 
you  not  forgiven  God  Almighty?' 

She  rose,  exerted  herself,  joined  the  world 
again,  and  became  useful  to  herself  and  her 
friends." 

Time's  kindly  touch  heals  many  wounds, 
but  the  years  seemed  to  bring  to  James 
Buchanan  no  surcease  of  sorrow.  He 
was  always  under  the  cloud  of  that  mis- 
understanding, and  during  his  long  politi- 
cal career,  the  incident  frequently  served 
as  a  butt  for  the  calumnies  of  his  enemies. 
It  was  freely  used  in  "campaign  docu- 


of  <&rej>  anb 


ments,"  perverted,  misrepresented,  and 
twisted  into  every  conceivable  shape, 
though  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how 
any  form  of  humanity  could  ever  be  so 
base. 

Next  to  the  loss  of  the  girl  he  loved, 
this  was  the  greatest  grief  of  his  life.  To 
see  the  name  of  his  "dear,  departed  saint" 
dragged  into  newspaper  notoriety  was 
absolute  torture.  Denial  was  useless,  and 
pleading  had  no  effect.  After  he  had 
retired  to  his  home  at  Wheatland,  and 
when  he  was  past  seventy  —  when  Anne 
Coleman's  beautiful  body  had  gone  back 
to  the  dust,  there  was  a  long  article  in 
a  newspaper  about  the  affair,  accompanied 
by  the  usual  misrepresentations. 

To  a  friend,  he  said,  with  deep  emotion  : 
"In  my  safety-deposit  box  in  New  York 
there  is  a  sealed  package,  containing  papers 
and  relics  which  will  explain  everything. 
Sometime,  when  I  am  dead,  the  world 
will  know  —  and  absolve." 

But  after  his  death,  when  his  executors 
found  the  package,  there  was  a  direction 


115 


on  the  outside:  "To  be  burned  unopened 
at  my  death." 

He  chose  silence  rather  than  vindication 
at  the  risk  of  having  Anne  Coleman's 
name  again  brought  into  publicity.  In 
that  little  parcel  there  was  doubtless 
full  exoneration,  but  at  the  end,  as  always, 
he  nobly  bore  the  blame. 

It  happened  that  the  letter  he  had 
written  to  her  father  was  not  in  this 
package,  but  among  his  papers  at  Wheat- 
land-  —  otherwise  that  pathetic  request 
would  also  have  been  burned. 

Through  all  his  life  he  remained  true 
to  Anne's  memory.  Under  the  continual 
public  attacks  his  grief  became  one  that 
even  his  friends  forebore  to  speak  of, 
and  he  had  a  chivalrous  regard  for  all 
women,  because  of  his  love  for  one.  His 
social  instincts  were  strong,  his  nature  af- 
fectionate and  steadfast,  yet  it  was  owing 
to  his  disappointment  that  he  became 
President.  At  one  time,  when  he  was  in 
London,  he  said  to  an  intimate  friend: 
"I  never  intended  to  engage  in  politics, 


n6        Sfireabtf  of  (Step  ant>  <&olb 


but  meant  to  follow  my  profession  strictly. 
But  my  prospects  and  plans  were  all 
changed  by  a  most  sad  event,  which 
happened  at  Lancaster  when  I  was  a 
young  man.  As  a  distraction  from  my 
grief,  and  because  I  saw  that  through  a 
political  following  I  could  secure  the  friends 
I  then  needed,  I  accepted  a  nomination." 

A  beautiful  side  of  his  character  is 
shown  in  his  devotion  to  his  niece,  Harriet 
Lane.  He  was  to  her  always  a  faithful 
father.  When  she  was  away  at  school 
or  otherwise  separated  from  him,  he  wrote 
to  her  regularly,  never  failing  to  assure 
her  of  his  affection,  and  received  her  love 
and  confidence  in  return.  In  1865,  when 
she  wrote  to  him  of  her  engagement,  he 
replied,  in  part,  as  follows: 

"I  believe  you  say  truly  that  nothing  would 
have  induced  you  to  leave  me,  in  good  or 
evil  fortune,  if  I  had  wished  you  to  remain 
with  me. 

"Such  a  wish  on  my  part  'would  be  very 
selfish.  You  have  long  known  my  desire 
that  you  should  marry  whenever  a  suitor 
worthy  of  you  should  offer.  Indeed,  it  has 


$tad)elor  ipreaifcent's  Hopaltp    117 


been  my  strong  desire  to  see  you  settled  in 
the  world  before  my  death.  You  have  now 
made  your  own  unbiased  choice;  and  from 
the  character  of  Mr.  Johnston,  I  anticipate 
for  you  a  happy  marriage,  because  I  believe 
from  your  own  good  sense,  you  will  conform 
to  your  conductor,  and  make  him  a  good  and 
loving  wife." 

The  days  passed  in  retirement  at 
Wheatland  were  filled  with  quiet  content. 
The  end  came  as  peacefully  as  the  night 
itself.  He  awoke  from  a  gentle  sleep, 
murmured,  "  O  Lord,  God  Almighty, 
as  Thou  wilt!"  and  passed  serenely  into 
that  other  sleep,  which  knows  not  dreams. 

The  impenetrable  veil  between  us  and 
eternity  permits  no  lifting  of  its  folds; 
there  is  no  parting  of  its  grey  ness,  save 
for  a  passage,  but  perhaps,  in  "that  un- 
discovered country  from  whose  bourne 
no  traveller  returns"  Anne  Coleman  and 
her.  lover  have  met  once  more,  and  the 
long  life  of  faithfulness  at  last  has  won 
her  pardon. 


decoration  S>a\> 

1THE  trees  bow  their  heads  in  sorrow, 
While  their  giant  branches  wave, 
With  the  requiems  of  the  forest, 
To  the  dead  in  a  soldier's  grave. 

The  pitying  rain  falls  softly, 

In  grief  for  a  nation's  brave, 
Who  died  'neath  the  scourge  of  treason 

And  rest  in  a  lonely  grave. 

So,  under  the  willow  and  cypress 

We  lay  our  dead  away, 
And  cover  their  graves  with  blossoms, 

But  the  debt  we  never  can  pay. 

All  nature  is  bathed  in  tears, 

On  our  sad  Memorial  day, 
When  we  crown  the  valour  of  heroes 

With  flowers  from  the  garments  of  May 


118 


"Romance  of  tbe  %ife  of 
^Lincoln 


ID  Y  the  slow  passing  of  years  humanity 
*-J  attains  what  is  called  the  "historical 
perspective,"  but  it  is  still  a  mooted  ques- 
tion as  to  how  many  years  are  necessary. 

We  think  of  Lincoln  as  a  great  leader, 
and  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  him  as  a 
lover.  He  was  at  the  helm  of  "the  Ship 
of  State"  in  the  most  fearful  storm  it  ever 
passed  through;  he  struck  off  the  shackles 
of  a  fettered  people,  and  was  crowned  with 
martyrdom;  yet  in  spite  of  his  greatness, 
he  loved  like  other  men. 

There  is  no  record  for  Lincoln's  earlier 
years  of  the  boyish  love  which  comes  to 
many  men  in  their  school  days.  The 
great  passion  of  his  life  came  to  him  in 
manhood  but  with  no  whit  of  its  sweetness 

gone.     Sweet  Anne  Rutledge  !     There  are 
119 


120        {Efjreab*  of  <&rep  anb 


those  who  remember  her  well,  and  to  this 
day  in  speaking  of  her,  their  eyes  fill  with 
tears.  A  lady  who  knew  her  says:  "Miss 
Rutledge  had  auburn  hair,  blue  eyes,  and 
a  fair  complexion.  She  was  pretty,  rather 
slender,  and  good-hearted,  beloved  by  all 
who  knew  her.  " 

Before  Lincoln  loved  her,  she  had  a 
sad  experience  with  another  man.  About 
the  time  that  he  came  to  New  Salem,  a 
young  man  named  John  McNeil  drifted 
in  from  one  of  the  Eastern  States.  He 
worked  hard,  was  plucky  and  industrious, 
and  soon  accumulated  a  little  property. 
He  met  Anne  Rutledge  when  she  was  but 
seventeen  and  still  in  school,  and  he 
began  to  pay  her  especial  attention  which 
at  last  culminated  in  their  engagement. 

He  was  about  going  back  to  New  York 
for  a  visit  and  leaving  he  told  Anne  that 
his  name  was  not  McNeil,  but  McNamar  — 
that  he  had  changed  his  name  so  that  his 
dependent  family  might  not  follow  him 
and  settle  down  upon  him  before  he  was 
able  to  support  them.  Now  that  he  was 


Romance  of  tfje  ILile  of  Htncoln   121 


in  a  position  to  aid  his  parents,  brothers, 
and  sisters,  he  was  going  back  to  do  it  and 
upon  his  return  would  make  Anne  his  wife. 

For  a  long  time  she  did  not  hear  from 
him  at  all,  and  gossip  was  rife  in  New 
Salem.  His  letters  became  more  formal 
and  less  frequent  and  finally  ceased  al- 
together. The  girl's  proud  spirit  com- 
pelled her  to  hold  her  head  high  amid 
the  impertinent  questions  of  the  neighbors. 

Lincoln  had  heard  of  the  strange  conduct 
of  McNeil  and  concluding  that  there  was 
now  no  tie  between  Miss  Rutledge  and 
her  quondam  lover,  he  began  his  own 
siege  in  earnest.  Anne  consented  at  last 
to  marry  him  provided  he  gave  her  time 
to  write  to  McNamar  and  obtain  a  release 
from  the  pledge  which  she  felt  was  still 
binding  upon  her. 

She  wrote,  but  there  r*^s  no  answer  and 
at  last  she  definitely  accepted  Lincoln. 

It  was  necessary  for  him  to  complete 
his  law  studies,  and  after  that,  he  said, 
"Nothing  on  God's  footstool  shall  keep  us 
apart.  " 


122         QH)tea&g  of  <&rep  ant) 


He  worked  happily  but  a  sore  conflict 
seemed  to  be  raging  in  Anne's  tender  heart 
and  conscience,  and  finally  the  strain  told 
upon  her  to  such  an  extent  that  when  she 
was  attacked  by  a  fever,  she  had  little 
strength  to  resist  it. 

The  summer  waned  and  Anne's  life 
ebbed  with  it.  At  the  very  end  of  her 
illness,  when  all  visitors  were  forbidden, 
she  insisted  upon  seeing  Lincoln.  He 
went  to  her  —  and  closed  the  door  be- 
tween them  and  the  world.  It  was  his 
last  hour  with  her.  When  he  came  out, 
his  face  was  white  with  the  agony  of 
parting. 

A  few  days  later,  she  died  and  Lincoln 
was  almost  insane  with  grief.  He  walked 
for  hours  in  the  woods,  refused  to  eat, 
would  speak  to  no  one,  and  there  settled 
upon  him  that  profound  melancholy  which 
came  back,  time  and  again,  during  the 
after  years.  To  one  friend  he  said:  "I 
cannot  bear  to  think  that  the  rain  and 
storms  will  beat  upon  her  grave.  " 

When  the  days  were  dark  and  stormy 


Romance  of  tfje  Htfe  of  Lincoln   123 


he  was  constantly  watched,  as  his  friends 
feared  he  would  take  his  own  life.  Finally, 
he  was  persuaded  to  go  away  to  the  house 
of  a  friend  who  lived  at  some  distance, 
and  here  he  remained  until  he  was  ready 
to  face  the  world  again. 

A  few  weeks  after  Anne's  burial,  Mc- 
Namar  returned  to  New  Salem.  On  his 
arrival  he  met  Lincoln  at  the  post-office 
and  both  were  sorely  distressed.  He 
made  no  explanation  of  his  absence,  and 
shortly  seemed  to  forget  about  Miss 
Rutledge,  but  her  grave  was  in  Lincoln's 
heart  until  the  bullet  of  the  assassin 
struck  him  down. 

In  October  of  1833,  Lincoln  met  Miss 
Mary  Owens,  and  admired  her  though 
not  extravagantly.  From  all  accounts, 
she  was  an  unusual  woman.  She  was  tall, 
full  in  figure,  with  blue  eyes  and  dark  hair; 
she  was  well  educated  and  quite  popular 
in  the  little  community.  She  was  away 
for  a  time,  but  returned  to  New  Salem  in 
1836,  and  Lincoln  at  once  began  to  call 
upon  her,  enjoying  her  wit  and  beauty. 


124        l&ftreaba  of  <&rcp  anb 


At  that  time  she  was  about  twenty-eight 
years  old. 

One  day  Miss  Owens  was  out  walking 
with  a  lady  friend  and  when  they  came  to 
the  foot  of  a  steep  hill,  Lincoln  joined  them. 
He  walked  behind  with  Miss  Owens,  and 
talked  with  her,  quite  oblivious  to  the 
fact  that  her  friend  was  carrying  a  heavy 
baby.  When  they  reached  the  summit, 
Miss  Owens  said  laughingly:  "You 
would  not  make  a  good  husband,  Abe." 

They  sat  on  the  fence  and  a  wordy 
discussion  followed.  Both  were  angry 
when  they  parted,  and  the  breach  was  not 
healed  for  some  time.  It  was  poor  policy 
to  quarrel,  since  some  time  before  he  had 
proposed  to  Miss  Owens,  and  she  had 
asked  for  time  in  which  to  consider  it 
before  giving  a  final  answer.  His  letters 
to  her  are  not  what  one  would  call  "love- 
letters."  One  begins  in  this  way: 

MARY:  —  I  have  been  sick  ever  since  my 
arrival,  or  I  should  have  written  sooner.  It 
is  but  little  difference,  however,  as  I  have  very 
little  even  yet  to  write.  And  more,  the 


Cfje  Romance  of  nje  Hilt  of  Uttuoln   125 

longer  I  can  avoid  the  mortification  of 
looking  in  the  post-office  for  your  letter,  and 
not  finding  it,  the  better.  You  see  I  am  mad 
about  that  old  letter  yet.  I  don't  like  very 
well  to  risk  you  again.  I  '11  try  you  once 
more,  anyhow. 

The  remainder  of  the  letter  deals  with 
political  matters  and  is  signed  simply 
"Your  Friend  Lincoln." 

In  another  letter  written  the  following 
year  he  says  to  her: 

I  am  often  thinking  about  what  we  said 
of  your  coming  to  live  at  Springfield.  I  am 
afraid  you  would  not  be  satisfied.  There  is 
a  great  deal  of  flourishing  about  in  carriages 
here,  which  it  would  be  your  doom  to  see 
without  sharing  it.  You  would  have  to  be 
poor  without  the  means  of  hiding  your 
poverty.  Do  you  believe  you  could  bear  that 
patiently? 

Whatever  woman  may  cast  her  lot  with 
mine,  should  any  ever  do  so,  it  is  my  intention 
to  do  all  in  my  power  to  make  her  happy  and 
contented ;  and  there  is  nothing  I  can  imagine 
that  would  make  me  more  unhappy  than  to 
fail  in  the  effort. 

I  know  I  should  be  much  happier  with  you 
than  the  way  I  am,  provided  I  saw  no  signs 


126        tEijreafcs  of  dlrep  anto 


of  discontent  in  you.  What  you  have  said 
to  me  may  have  been  in  the  way  of  jest,  or  I 
may  have  misunderstood  it. 

If  so,  then  let  it  be  forgotten;  if  otherwise 
I  much  wish  you  would  think  seriously  before 
you  decide.  For  my  part,  I  have  already 
decided. 

What  I  have  said  I  will  most  positively  abide 
by,  provided  you  wish  it.  My  opinion  is 
that  you  would  better  not  do  it.  You  have 
not  been  accustomed  to  hardship,  and  it  may 
be  more  severe  than  you  now  imagine. 

I  know  you  are  capable  of  thinking  correctly 
upon  any  subject  and  if  you  deliberate 
maturely  upon  this  before  you  decide,  then 
I  am  willing  to  abide  by  your  decision. 

Matters  went  on  in  this  way  for  about 
three  months;  then  they  met  again, 
seemingly  without  making  any  progress. 
On  the  day  they  parted,  Lincoln  wrote  her 
another  letter,  evidently  to  make  his  own 
position  clear  and  put  the  burden  of 
decision  upon  her. 

If  you  feel  yourself  in  any  degree  bound 
to  me  [he  said],  I  am  now  willing  to  release 
you,  provided  you  wish  it  ;  wh  !;•,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  am  willing  and  even  anxious,  to  bind 
you  faster,  if  I  can  be  convinced  that  it  will 


Romance  of  tfje  TL\it  of  Htmoln   127 


in  any  considerable  degree  add  to  your 
happiness.  This,  indeed,  is  the  whole  ques- 
tion with  me.  Nothing  would  make  me  more 
miserable  than  to  believe  you  miserable  — 
nothing  more  happy  than  to  know  you  were 
so. 

In  spite  of  his  evident  sincerity,  it  is  not 
surprising  to  learn  that  a  little  later,  Miss 
Owens  definitely  refused  him.  In  April,  of 
the  following  year,  Lincoln  wrote  to  his 
friend,  Mrs.  L.  H.  Browning,  giving  a  full 
account  of  this  grotesque  courtship: 

I  finally  was  forced  to  give  it  up  [he  wrote] 
at  which  I  very  unexpectedly  found  myself 
mortified  almost  beyond  endurance. 

I  was  mortified  it  seemed  to  me  in  a  hun- 
dred different  ways.  My  vanity  was  deeply 
wounded  by  the  reflection  that  I  had  so  long 
been  too  stupid  to  discover  her  intentions, 
and  at  the  same  time  never  doubting  that  I 
understood  them  perfectly;  and  also,  that 
she,  whom  I  had  taught  myself  to  believe 
nobody  else  would  have,  had  actually  re- 
jected me,  with  all  my  fancied  greatness. 

And  then  to  cap  the  whole,  I  then,  for  the 
first  time,  began  to  suspect  that  I  was  really 
a  little  in  love  with  her.  But  let  it  all  go. 
I  '11  try  and  outlive  it.  Others  have  been 


made  fools  of  by  the  girls;  but  this  can  never 
with  truth  be  said  of  me.  I  most  emphatically 
in  this  instance  made  a  fool  of  myself.  I 
have  now  come  to  the  conclusion  never  again 
to  think  of  marrying,  and  for  this  reason  I 
Can  never  be  satisfied  with  any  one  who 
would  be  blockhead  enough  to  have  me! 

The  gist  of  the  matter  seems  to  be  that 
at  heart  Lincoln  hesitated  at  matrimony, 
as  other  men  have  done,  both  before  and 
since  his  time.  In  his  letter  to  Mrs. 
Browning  he  speaks  of  his  efforts  to  "put 
off  the  evil  day  for  a  time,  which  I  really 
dreaded  as  much,  perhaps  more,  than  an 
Irishman  does  the  halter!" 

But  in  1839  Miss  Mary  Todd  came  to 
live  with  her  sister,  Mrs.  Ninian  Edwards, 
at  Springfield.  She  was  in  her  twenty-first 
year,  and  is  described  as  "of  average 
height  and  compactly  built. "  She  had  a 
well-rounded  face,  rich  dark  brown  hair, 
and  bluish  grey  eyes.  No  picture  of  her 
fails  to  show  the  full,  well-developed  chin, 
which,  more  than  any  other  feature  is 
an  evidence  of  determination.  She  was 
strong,  proud,  passionate,  gifted  with  a 


Romance  of  tfje  ILilt  of  Lincoln  129 


keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  well  educated, 
and  swayed  only  by  her  own  imperious 
will. 

Lincoln  was  attracted  at  once,  and 
strangely  enough,  Stephen  A.  Douglas 
crossed  his  wooing.  For  a  time  the  two 
men  were  rivals,  the  pursuit  waxing  more 
furious  day  by  day.  Some  one  asked  Miss 
Todd  which  of  them  she  intended  to  marry, 
and  she  answered  laughingly:  "The  one 
who  has  the  best  chance  of  becoming 
President!" 

She  is  said,  however,  to  have  refused  the 
"Little  Giant"  on  account  of  his  lax 
morality  and  after  that  the  coast  was  clear 
for  Lincoln.  Miss  Todd's  sister  tells  us 
that  "he  was  charmed  by  Mary's  wit  and 
fascinated  by  her  quick  sagacity,  her 
will,  her  nature,  and  culture."  "I  have 
happened  in  the  room,"  she  says,  "where 
they  were  sitting,  often  and  often,  and 
Mary  led  the  conversation.  Lincoln 
would  listen,  and  gaze  on  her  as  if  drawn 
by  some  superior  power  —  irresistibly  so; 
he  listened,  but  scarcely  ever  said  a  word.  " 


130        {Eijreafcg  of  <&rcp  anb  dlolb 

The  affair  naturally  culminated  in  an 
engagement,  and  the  course  of  love  was 
running  smoothly,  when  a  distracting 
element  appeared  in  the  shape  of  Miss 
Matilda  Edwards,  the  sister  of  Mrs. 
Edwards's  husband.  She  was  young  and 
fair,  and  Lincoln  was  pleased  with  her 
appearance.  For  a  time  he  tried  to  go  on 
as  before,  but  his  feelings  were  too  strong 
to  be  concealed.  Mr.  Edwards  endeavoured 
to  get  his  sister  to  marry  Lincoln's  friend, 
Speed,  but  she  refused  both  Speed  and 
Douglas. 

It  is  said  that  Lincoln  once  went  to  Miss 
Todd's  house,  intending  to  break  the  en- 
gagement, but  his  real  love  proved  too 
strong  to  allow  him  to  do  it. 

His  friend,  Speed,  thus  describes  the  con- 
clusion of  this  episode.  ' '  Well,  old  fellow, ' ' 
I  said,  "did  you  do  as  you  intended?" 

"Yes,  I  did,"  responded  Lincoln 
thoughtfully,  "and  when  I  told  Mary  I 
did  not  love  her,  she,  wringing  her  hands, 
said  something  about  the  deceiver  being 
himself  deceived. " 


Romance  of  tfje  Hilt  of  Lincoln   131 


"What  else  did  you  say?" 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Speed,  it  was 
too  much  for  me.  I  found  the  tears 
trickling  down  my  own  cheeks.  I  caught 
her  in  my  arms  and  kissed  her." 

"And  that  's  how  you  broke  the  engage- 
ment. Your  conduct  was  tantamount  to  a 
renewal  of  it!" 

And  indeed  this  was  true,  and  the  lovers 
again  considered  the  time  of  marriage. 

There  is  a  story  by  Herndon  to  the 
effect  that  a  wedding  was  arranged  for  the 
first  day  of  January,  1841,  and  then  when 
the  hour  came  Lincoln  did  not  appear,  and 
was  found  wandering  alone  in  the  woods 
plunged  in  the  deepest  melancholy  —  a 
melancholy  bordering  upon  insanity. 

This  story,  however,  has  no  foundation; 
in  fact,  most  competent  witnesses  agree 
that  no  such  marriage  date  was  fixed, 
although  some  date  may  have  been 
considered. 

It  is  certain,  however,  that  the  relations 
between  Lincoln  and  Miss  Todd  were 
broken  off  for  a  time.  He  did  go  to 


132        {Eijreafctf  of  (Srep  anfc 


Kentucky  for  a  while,  but  this  trip  cer- 
tainly was  not  due  to  insanity.  Lincoln 
was  never  so  mindless  as  some  of  his 
biographers  would  have  us  believe,  and 
the  breaking  of  the  engagement  was  due 
to  perfectly  natural  causes  —  the  difference 
in  temperament  of  the  lovers,  and  Lincoln's 
inclination  to  procrastinate.  After  a  time 
the  strained  relations  gradually  improved. 
They  met  occasionally  in  the  parlor  of  a 
friend,  Mrs.  Francis,  and  it  was  through 
Miss  Todd  that  the  duel  with  Shields 
came  about. 

She  wielded  a  ready  and  a  sarcastic  pen, 
and  safely  hidden  behind  a  pseudonym 
and  the  promise  of  the  editor,  she  wrote  a 
series  of  satirical  articles  for  the  local 
paper,  entitled:  "Letters  from  Lost  Town- 
ships." In  one  of  these  she  touched  up 
Mr.  Shields,  the  Auditor  of  State,  to  such 
good  purpose  that  believing  that  Lincoln 
had  written  the  article,  he  challenged  him 
to  a  duel.  Lincoln  accepted  the  challenge 
and  chose  "cavalry  broadswords"  as  the 
weapons,  but  the  intervention  of  friends 


Romance  of  tfje  Hilt  of  Hincoln   133 


prevented  any  fighting,  although  he  always 
spoke  of  the  affair  as  his  "duel.  " 

As  a  result  of  this  altercation  with 
Shields,  Miss  Todd  and  the  future  Presi- 
dent came  again  into  close  friendship,  and 
a  marriage  was  decided  upon. 

The  license  was  secured,  the  minister 
sent  for,  and  on  November  4,  1842,  they 
became  man  and  wife. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  more  or  less 
unhappiness  obtained  in  their  married 
life,  for  Mrs.  Lincoln  was  a  woman  of 
strong  character,  proud,  fiery,  and  deter- 
mined. Her  husband  was  subject  to 
strange  moods  and  impulses,  and  the 
great  task  which  God  had  committed  to 
him  made  him  less  amenable  to  family 
cares. 

That  married  life  which  began  at  the 
Globe  Tavern  was  destined  to  end  at  the 
White  House,  after  years  of  vicissitude  and 
serious  national  trouble.  Children  were 
born  unto  them,  and  all  but  the  eldest 
died.  Great  responsibilities  were  laid  upon 
Lincoln  and  even  though  he  met  them 


134         tE^realuS  of  <^rep  an& 


bravely  it  was  inevitable  that  his  family 
should  also  suffer. 

Upon  the  face  of  the  Commander-in- 
chief  rested  nearly  always  a  mighty  sad- 
ness, except  when  it  was  occasionally 
illumined  by  his  wonderful  smile,  or  when 
the  light  of  his  sublime  faith  banished  the 
clouds. 

Storm  and  stress,  suffering  and  heart- 
ache, reverses  and  defeat  were  the  portion 
of  the  Leader,  and  when  Victory  at  last 
perched  upon  the  National  standard,  her 
beautiful  feet  were  all  drabbled  in  blood, 
and  the  most  terrible  war  on  the  world's 
records  passed  down  into  history.  In  the 
hour  of  triumph,  with  his  great  purpose 
nobly  fulfilled,  death  came  to  the  great 
Captain. 

The  United  Republic  is  his  monument, 
and  that  rugged,  yet  gracious  figure, 
hallowed  by  martyrdom,  stands  before  the 
eyes  of  his  countrymen  forever  serene  and 
calm,  while  his  memory  lingers  like  a 
benediction  in  the  hearts  of  both  friend 
and  foe. 


Silent 


SHE  is  standing  alone  by  the  window  — 
A  woman,  faded  and  old, 
But  the  wrinkled  face  was  lovely  once, 

And  the  silvered  hair  was  gold. 
As  out  in  the  darkness,  the  snow-flakes 

Are  falling  so  softly  and  slow, 
Her  thoughts  fly  back  to  the  summer  of  life, 
And  the  scenes  of  long  ago. 

Before  the  dim  eyes,  a  picture  comes, 

She  has  seen  it  again  and  again; 
The  tears  steal  over  the  faded  cheeks, 

And  the  lips  that  quiver  with  pain, 
For  she  hears  once  more  the  trumpet  call 

And  sees  the  battle  array 
As  they  march  to  the  hills  with  gleaming 
swords  — 

Can  she  ever  forget  that  day? 

She  has  given  her  boy  to  the  land  she  loves, 

How  hard  it  had  been  to  part  ! 
And  to-night  she  stands  at  the  window  alone, 

With  a  new-made  grave  in  her  heart. 


136         &f)rea&*  of  (Step  anb 


And  yet,  it  's  the  day  of  Thanksgiving  — 
But  her  child,  her  darling  was  slain 

By  the  shot  and  shell  of  the  rebel  guns  — 
Can  she  ever  be  thankful  again? 

She  thinks  once  more  of  his  fair  young  face, 

And  the  cannon's  murderous  roll, 
While  hatred  springs  in  her  passionate  heart, 

And  bitterness  into  her  soul. 
Then  out  of  the  death-like  stillness 

There  comes  a  battle-cry  — 
The  song  that  led  those  marching  feet 

To  conquer,  or  to  die. 

"Yes,  rally  round  the  flag,  boys!" 

With  tears  she  hears  the  song, 
And  her  thoughts  go  back  to  the  boys  in  blue, 

That  army,  brave  and  strong  — 
Then  Peace  creeps  in  amid  the  pain. 

The  dead  are  as  dear  as  the  living, 
And  back  of  the  song  is  the  silence, 

And  back  of  the  silence  —  Thanksgiving. 


fln  the  jflasb  of  a  Jewel 

/"CERTAIN  barbaric  instincts  in  the 
^-^  human  race  seem  to  be  ineradicable. 
It  is  but  a  step  from  the  painted  savage, 
gorgeous  in  his  beads  and  wampum,  to 
my  lady  of  fashion,  who  wears  a  tiara 
upon  her  stately  head,  chains  and  collars 
of  precious  stones  at  her  throat,  bracelets 
on  her  white  arms,  and  innumerable  rings 
upon  her  dainty  fingers.  Wise  men  may 
decry  the  baleful  fascination  of  jewels,  but, 
none  the  less,  the  jeweller's  window  con- 
tinues to  draw  the  crowd. 

Like  brilliant  moths  that  appear  only  at 
night,  jewels  are  tabooed  in  the  day  hours. 
Dame  Fashion  sternly  condemns  gems  in 
the  day  time  as  evidence  of  hopelessly 
bad  taste.  No  jewels  are  permitted  in 
any  ostentatious  way,  and  yet  a  woman 

may,  even  in  good  society,  wear  a  few 
137 


138         tEfjreati*  of  <@rep  anto 


thousand  dollars'  worth  of  precious  stones, 
without  seeming  to  be  overdressed,  pro- 
vided the  occasion  is  appropriate,  as  in  the 
case  of  functions  held  in  darkened  rooms. 

In  the  evening  when  shoulders  are  bared 
and  light  feet  tread  fantastic  measures  in  a 
ball  room,  which  is  literally  a  bower  of 
roses,  there  seems  to  be  no  limit  as  regards 
jewels.  In  such  an  assembly  a  woman 
may,  without  appearing  overdressed,  adorn 
herself  with  diamonds  amounting  to  a  small 
fortune. 

During  a  season  of  grand  opera  in 
Chicago,  a  beautiful  white-haired  woman 
sat  in  the  same  box  night  after  night 
without  attracting  particular  attention, 
except  as  a  woman  of  acknowledged 
beauty.  At  a  glance  it  might  be  thought 
that  her  dress,  although  elegant,  was  rather 
simple,  but  an  enterprising  reporter  dig- 
covered  that  her  gown  of  rare  old  lace, 
with  the  pattern  picked  out  here  and  there 
with  chip  diamonds,  had  cost  over  fifty-five 
thousand  dollars.  The  tiara,  collar,  and 
few  rings  she  wore,  swelled  the  grand 


3fn  ttjc  Jflasif)  of  a  5etocl  139 

total  to  more  than  three  hundred  thousand 
dollars. 

Diamonds,  rubies,  sapphires,  emeralds, 
pearls,  and  opals — these  precious  stones 
have  played  a  tremendous  part  in  the 
world's  history.  Empires  have  been  bar- 
tered for  jewels,  and  for  a  string  of  pearls 
many  a  woman  has  sold  her  soul.  It  is 
said  that  pearls  mean  tears,  yet  they  are 
favourite  gifts  for  brides,  and  no  maiden 
fears  to  wear  them  on  her  way  up  the  aisle 
where  her  bridegroom  waits. 

A  French  writer  claims  that  if  it  be  true 
that  the  oyster  can  be  forced  to  make  as 
many  pearls  as  may  be  required  of  it,  the 
jewel  will  become  so  common  that  my  lady 
will  no  longer  care  to  decorate  herself  with 
its  pale  splendour.  Whether  or  not  this 
will  ever  be  the  case,  it  is  certain  that 
few  gems  have  played  a  more  conspicu- 
ous part  in  history  than  this. 

Not  only  have  we  Cleopatra's  reckless 
draught,  but  there  is  also  a  story  of  a  noble 
Roman  who  dissolved  in  vinegar  and 
drank  a  pearl  worth  a  million  sesterces, 


140         {Dljreabs  of  &rep  anb  <@olb 

which  had  adorned  the  ear  of  the  woman  he 
loved.  But  the  cold-hearted  chemist  de- 
clares that  an  acid  which  could  dissolve 
a  pearl  would  also  dissolve  the  person  who 
swallowed  it,  so  those  two  legends  must 
vanish  with  many  others  that  have  shriv- 
elled up  under  the  searching  gaze  of 
science. 

There  is  another  interesting  story  about 
the  destruction  of  a  pearl.  During  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  a  haughty  Spanish 
ambassador  was  boasting  at  the  Court  of 
England  of  the  great  riches  of  his  king. 
Sir  Thomas  Gresham,  wishing  to  get  even 
with  the  bragging  Castilian,  replied  that 
some  of  Elizabeth's  subjects  would  spend 
as  much  at  one  meal  as  Philip's  whole 
kingdom  could  produce  in  a  day!  To 
prove  this  statement,  Sir  Thomas  invited 
the  Spaniard  to  dine  with  him,  and  having 
ground  up  a  costly  Eastern  pearl  the 
Englishman  coolly  swallowed  it. 

Going  back  to  the  dimness  of  early 
times,  we  find  that  many  of  the  ancients 
preferred  green  gems  to  all  other  stones. 


3n  tfje  jflafirtj  of  a  STetoel  141 

The  emerald  was  thought  to  have  many 
virtues.  It  kept  evil  spirits  at  a  distance, 
it  restored  failing  sight,  it  could  unearth 
mysteries,  and  when  it  turned  yellow  its 
owner  knew  to  a  certainty  that  the  woman 
he  loved  was  false  to  him. 

The  ruby  flashes  through  all  Oriental 
romances.  This  stone  banished  sadness 
and  sin.  A  serpent  with  a  ruby  in  its 
mouth  was  considered  an  appropriate 
betrothal  ring. 

The  most  interesting  ruby  of  history  is 
set  in  the  royal  diadem  of  England.  It  is 
called  the  Black  Prince's  ruby.  In  the 
days  when  the  Moors  ruled  Granada, 
when  both  the  men  and  the  women  of 
that  race  sparkled  with  gems,  and  even 
the  ivory  covers  of  their  books  were  some- 
times set  with  precious  stones,  the  Spanish 
king,  Don  Pedro  the  Cruel,  obtained  this 
stone  from  a  Moorish  prince  whom  he  had 
caused  to  be  murdered. 

It  was  given  by  Don  Pedro  to  the  Black 
Prince,  and  half  a  century  later  it  glowed 
on  the  helmet  of  that  most  picturesque 


142         tEfnrea&g  of  <^rep  anb 


of  England's  kings,  Henry  V,  at  the  battle 
of  Agincourt. 

The  Scotchman,  Sir  James  Melville,  saw 
this  jev/ci  during  his  famous  visit  to  the 
Court  of  Elizabeth,  when  the  Queen  showed 
him  some  of  the  treasures  in  her  cabinet, 
the  most  valued  of  these  being  the  portrait 
of  Leicester. 

"She  showed  me  a  fair  ruby  like  a  great 
racket  ball,"  he  says.  "I  desired  she 
would  send  to  my  queen  either  this  or  the 
Earl  of  Leicester's  picture."  But  Elizabeth 
cherished  both  the  ruby  and  the  portrait, 
so  she  sent  Marie  Stuart  a  diamond 
instead. 

Poets  have  lavished  their  fancies  upon 
the  origin  of  the  opal,  but  no  one  seems  to 
know  why  it  is  considered  unlucky.  Women 
who  laugh  at  superstitions  of  all  kinds  are 
afraid  to  wear  an  opal,  and  a  certain 
jeweller  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  largest 
establishments  in  a  great  city  has  carried 
his  fear  to  such  a  length  that  he  will  not 
keep  one  in  his  establishment  —  not  only 
this,  but  it  is  said  that  he  has  even  been 


3n  tfje  jflasrt)  of  a  SFetoel          143 

• 

known  to  throw  an  opal  ring  out  of  the 
window.  The  offending  stone  had  been 
presented  to  his  daughter,  but  this  fact 
was  not  allowed  to  weigh  against  his 
superstition.  It  is  understood  when  he 
entertains  that  none  of  his  guests  will  wear 
opals,  and  this  wish  is  faithfully  respected. 

The  story  goes  that  the  opal  was  discov- 
ered at  the  same  time  that  kissing  was  in- 
vented. A  young  shepherd  on  the  hills  of 
Greece  found  a  pretty  pebble  one  day,  and 
wishing  to  give  it  to  a  beautiful  shepherdess 
who  stood  near  him,  he  let  her  take  it  from 
his  lips  with  hers,  as  the  hands  of  neither 
of  them  were  clean. 

Many  a  battle  royal  has  been  waged  for 
the  possession  of  a  diamond,  and  several 
famous  diamonds  are  known  by  name 
throughout  the  world.  Among  these  are 
the  Orloff,  the  Koh-i-noor,  the  Regent,  the 
Real  Paragon,  and  the  Sanci,  besides  the 
enormous  stone  which  was  sent  to  King 
Edward  from  South  Africa.  This  has 
been  cut  but  not  yet  named. 

The  Orloff  is  perhaps  the  most  brilliant 


144         tCijreabsi  of  <J5rcj>  anb 


of  all  the  famous  group.  Tradition  says 
that  it  was  once  one  of  the  eyes  of  an  Indian 
idol  and  was  supposed  to  have  been  the 
origin  of  all  light.  A  French  grenadier 
of  Pondicherry  deserted  his  regiment, 
adopted  the  religion  and  manners  of  the 
Brahmans,  worshipped  at  the  shrine  of 
the  idol  whose  eyes  were  light  itself,  stole 
the  brightest  one,  and  escaped. 

A  sea  captain  bought  it  from  him  for 
ten  thousand  dollars  and  sold  it  to  a  Jew 
for  sixty  thousand  dollars.  An  Armenian 
named  Shafras  bought  it  from  the  Jew, 
and  after  a  time  Count  Orloff  paid 
$382,500  for  this  and  a  title  of  Russian 
nobility. 

He  presented  the  wonderful  refractor 
of  light  to  the  Empress  Catherine  who 
complimented  Orloff  by  naming  it  after 
him.  This  magnificent  stone,  which  weighs 
one  hundred  and  ninety-five  carats,  now 
forms  the  apex  of  the  Russian  crown. 

The  Real  Paragon  was  in  1861  the 
property  of  the  Rajah  of  Mattan.  It  was 
then  uncut  and  weighed  three  hundred 


3n  tije  jflasf)  of  a  3T*tod  145 

and  seven  carats.  The  Governor  of  Bata- 
via  was  very  anxious  to  bring  it  to  Europe. 
He  offered  the  Rajah  one  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  dollars  and  two  warships 
with  their  guns  and  ammunition,  but  the 
offer  was  contemptuously  refused.  Very 
little  is  known  of  its  history.  It  is  now 
owned  by  the  Government  of  Portugal 
and  is  pledged  as  security  for  a  very  large 
sum  of  money. 

It  has  been  said  that  one  could  carry 
the  Koh-i-noor  in  one  end  of  a  silk  purse 
and  balance  it  in  the  other  end  with  a  gold 
eagle  and  a  gold  dollar,  and  never  feel  the 
difference  in  weight,  while  the  value  of  the 
gem  in  gold  could  not  be  transported  in 
less  than  four  dray  loads! 

Tradition  says  that  Kama,  King  of 
Anga,  owned  it  three  thousand  years  ago. 
The  King  of  Lahore,  one  of  the  Indies, 
heard  that  the  King  of  Cabul,  one  of  the 
lesser  princes,  had  in  his  possession  the 
largest  and  purest  diamond  in  the  world. 
Lahore  invited  Cabul  to  visit  him,  and 
when  he  had  him  in  his  power,  demanded 


146         ®Jjreafcg  of 


the  treasure.  Cabul,  however,  had  sus- 
pected treachery,  and  brought  an  imita- 
tion of  the  Koh-i-noor.  He  of  course 
expostulated,  but  finally  surrendered  the 
supposed  diamond. 

The  lapidary  who  was  employed  to 
mount  it  pronounced  it  a  piece  of  crystal, 
whereupon  the  royal  old  thief  sent  soldiers 
who  ransacked  the  palace  of  the  King  of 
Cabul  from  top  to  bottom,  in  vain.  At 
last,  however,  after  a  long  search,  a  servant 
betrayed  his  master,  and  the  gem  was 
found  in  a  pile  of  ashes. 

After  the  annexation  of  the  Punjab  in 
1849,  the  Koh-i-noor  was  given  up  to  the 
British,  and  at  a  meeting  of  the  Punjab 
Board  was  handed  to  John  (afterward 
Lord)  Lawrence  who  placed  it  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket  and  forgot  the  treasure. 
While  at  a  public  meeting  some  time  later, 
he  suddenly  remembered  it,  hurried  home 
and  asked  his  servant  if  he  had  seen  a  small 
box  which  he  hadleftinhiswaistcoatpocket. 

"Yes,  sahib,  "  the  man  replied  ;  "I  found 
it,  and  put  in  your  drawer.  " 


3!n  tfje  Jflasrt)  of  a  HTetoel          147 

"Bring  it  here, "  said  Lawrence,  and  the 
servant  produced  it. 

"Now,"  said  his  master,  "open  it  and 
see  what  it  contains. " 

The  old  native  obeyed,  and  after  re- 
moving the  folds  of  linen,  he  said:  "There 
is  nothing  here  but  a  piece  of  glass." 

"Good,"  said  Lawrence,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  "you  can  leave  it  with  me. " 

The  Sanci  diamond  belonged  to  Charles 
the  Bold,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  who  wore 
it  in  his  hat  at  the  battle  of  Nancy,  where 
he  fell.  A  Swiss  soldier  found  it  and  sold 
it  for  a  gulden  to  a  clergyman  of  Baltimore. 
It  passed  into  the  possession  of  Anton, 
King  of  Portugal,  who  was  obliged  to  sell  it, 
the  price  being  a  million  francs. 

It  shortly  afterward  became  the  property 
of  a  Frenchman  named  Sanci,  whose 
descendant  being  sent  as  an  ambassador, 
was  required  by  the  King  to  give  the 
diamond  as  a  pledge.  The  servant  carry- 
ing it  to  the  King  was  attacked  by  robbers 
on  the  way  and  murdered,  not,  however, 
until  he  had  swallowed  the  diamond.  His 


148         ®fjreafca  of  (Step  anfc 


master,  feeling  sure  of  his  faithfulness, 
caused  the  body  to  be  opened  and  found 
the  gem  in  his  stomach.  This  gem  came 
into  the  possession  of  the  Crown  of  Eng- 
land, and  James  II  carried  it  with  him  to 
France  in  1688. 

From  James  it  passed  to  his  friend  and 
patron,  Louis  XIV,  and  to  his  descendants, 
until  the  Duchess  of  Berry  at  the  Restora- 
tion sold  it  to  the  Demidoffs  for  six  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  thousand  francs. 

It  was  worth  a  million  and  a  half  of 
francs  when  Prince  Paul  Demidoff  wore 
it  in  his  hat  at  a  great  fancy  ball  given  in 
honour  of  Count  Walewski,  the  Minister 
of  Napoleon  III  —  and  lost  it  during  the 
ball!  Everybody  was  wild  with  excite- 
ment when  the  loss  was  announced  — 
everybody  but  Prince  Paul  Demidoff. 
After  an  hour's  search  the  Sanci  was 
found  under  a  chair. 

After  more  than  two  centuries,  "the 
Regent  is,  "  a^  Saint-Simon  described  it  in 
1  7  1  7  ,  '  '  a  brilliant,  inestimable  and  unique.  '  ' 
Its  density  is  rather  higher  than  that  of  the 


3n  ttjc  Jflast)  of  a  STetoel          149 

usual  diamond,  and  it  weighs  upwards  of 
one  hundred  and  thirty  carats.  This  stone 
was  found  in  India  by  a  slave,  who,  to 
conceal  it,  made  a  wound  in  his  leg  and 
wrapped  the  gem  in  the  bandages.  Reach- 
ing the  coast,  he  intrusted  himself  and  his 
secret  to  an  English  captain,  who  took  the 
gem,  threw  the  slave  overboard,  and  sold 
his  ill-gotten  gains  to  a  native  merchant 
for  five  thousand  dollars. 

It  afterwards  passed  into  the  hands  of 
Pitt,  Governor  of  St.  George,  who  sold  it 
in  1717  to  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  then 
Regent  of  France,  for  $675,000.  Before 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  the 
stone  had  more  than  trebled  in  worth,  and 
we  can  only  wonder  what  it  ought  to  bring 
now  with  its  "perfect  whiteness,  its  regular 
form,  and  its  absolute  freedom  from  stain 
or  flaw!" 

The  collection  belonging  to  the  Sultan 
of  Turkey,  which  is  probably  the  finest  in 
the  world,  dates  prior  to  the  discovery  of 
America,  and  undoubtedly  came  from  Asia. 
One  Turkish  pasha  alone  left  to  the  Empire 


150         {Efjreabsf  of  <^rcp  anb 


at  his  death,  seven  table-cloths  embroidered 
with  diamonds,  and  bushels  of  fine  pearls. 

In  the  war  with  Russia,  in  1778,  Turkey 
borrowed  $30,000,000  from  the  Ottoman 
Bank  on  the  security  of  the  crown  jewels. 
The  cashier  of  the  bank  was  admitted  to 
the  treasure-chamber  and  was  told  to  help 
himself  until  he  had  enough  to  secure  his 
advances. 

"I  selected  enough,"  he  says,  "to  secure 
the  bank  against  loss  in  any  event,  but 
the  removal  of  the  gems  I  took  made  no 
appreciable  gap  in  the  accumulation." 

In  the  imperial  treasury  of  the  Sultan, 
the  first  room  is  the  richest  in  notable 
objects.  The  most  conspicuous  of  these 
is  a  great  throne  or  divan  of  beaten  gold, 
occupying  the  entire  centre  of  the  room, 
and  set  with  precious  stones  :  pearls,  rubies, 
and  emeralds,  thousands  of  them,  covering 
the  entire  surface  in  a  geometrical  mosaic 
pattern.  This  specimen  of  barbaric  magni- 
ficence was  part  of  the  spoils  of  war  taken 
from  one  of  the  shahs  of  Persia. 

Much  more  interesting  and  beautiful, 


3n  tije  Jflatff)  of  a  STetoel  151 

however,  is  another  canopied  throne  or 
divan,  placed  in  the  upper  story  of  the 
same  building.  This  is  a  genuine  work  of 
old  Turkish  art  which  date,s  from  some  time 
during  the  second  half  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  It  is  a  raised  square  seat,  on 
which  the  Sultan  sat  cross-legged.  At 
each  angle  there  rises  a  square  vertical 
shaft  supporting  a  canopy,  with  a  minaret 
or  pinnacle  surmounted  by  a  rich  gold  and 
jewelled  finial.  The  entire  height  of  the 
throne  is  nine  or  ten  feet.  The  materials 
are  precious  woods,  ebony,  sandal-wood, 
etc.,  with  shell,  mother-of-pearl,  silver,  and 
gold. 

The  entire  piece  is  decorated  inside  and 
out  with  a  branching  floriated  design  in 
mother-of-pearl  marquetry,  in  the  style 
of  the  fine  early  Persian  painted  tiles,  and 
the  centre  of  each  of  the  principal  leaves 
and  flowers  is  set  with  splendid  cabochon 
gems,  fine  balass  rubies,  emeralds,  sap- 
phires, and  pearls. 

Pendant  from  the  roof  of  the  canopy,  and 
in  a  position  which  would  be  directly  over 


152         QTijteafc*  of  <grep  anfc 


the  head  of  the  Sultan,  is  a  golden  cord,  on 
which  is  hung  a  large  heart-shaped  orna- 
ment of  gold,  chased  and  perforated  with 
floriated  work,  and  beneath  it  hangs  a 
huge  uncut  emerald  of  fine  colour,  but  of 
triangular  shape,  four  inches  in  diameter, 
and  an  inch  and  a  half  thick. 

Richly  decorated  arms  and  armour  form 
a  conspicuous  feature  of  the  contents  of  all 
three  of  these  rooms.  The  most  notable 
work  in  this  class  in  the  first  apartment  is  a 
splendid  suit  of  mixed  chain  and  plate  mail, 
wonderfully  damascened  and  jewelled, 
worn  by  Sultan  Murad  IV,  in  1638,  at  the 
taking  of  Bagdad. 

Near  to  it  is  a  scimetar,  probably  a  part 
of  the  panoply  of  the  same  monarch. 
Both  the  hilt  and  the  greater  part  of  the 
broad  scabbard  of  this  weapon  are  in- 
crusted  with  large  table  diamonds,  forming 
checkerwork,  all  the  square  stones  being 
regularly  and  symmetrically  cut,  of  exactly 
the  same  size  —  upward  of  half  an  inch 
across.  There  are  many  other  sumptuous 
works  of  art  which  are  similarly  adorned. 


3n  tije  jflastf)  of  a  STetoel  153 

Rightfully  first  among  the  world's  splen- 
did coronets  stands  the  State  Crown  of 
England.  It  was  made  in  1838  with 
jewels  taken  from  old  crowns  and  others 
furnished  by  command  of  the  Queen. 

It  consists  of  diamonds,  pearls,  rubies, 
sapphires,  and  emeralds,  set  in  silver  and 
gold.  It  has  a  crimson  velvet  cap  with 
ermine  border;  it  is  lined  with  white  silk 
and  weighs  about  forty  ounces.  The  lower 
part  of  the  band  above  the  ermine  border 
consists  of  a  row  of  one  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  pearls,  and  the  upper  part  of  this 
band  has  one  hundred  and  twelve  pearls, 
between  which,  in  the  front  of  the  crown, 
is  a  large  sapphire  which  was  purchased 
for  it  by  George  IV. 

At  the  back  is  a  sapphire  of  smaller 
size  and  six  others,  three  on  each  side, 
between  which  are  eight  emeralds.  Above 
and  below  the  sapphires  are  fourteen 
diamonds,  and  around  the  eight  emeralds 
are  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight  dia- 
monds. Between  the  emeralds  and  sap- 
phires are  sixteen  ornaments,  containing 


one  hundred  and  sixty  diamonds.  Above 
the  band  are  eight  sapphires,  surmounted 
by  eight  diamonds,  between  which  are  eight 
festoons,  consisting  of  one  hundred  and 
forty-eight  diamonds. 

In  the  front  of  the  crown  and  in  the 
centre  of  a  diamond  Maltese  cross  is  the 
famous  ruby  of  the  Black  Prince.  Around 
this  ruby  to  form  the  cross  are  seventy- 
five  brilliant  diamonds.  Three  other  Mal- 
tese crosses,  forming  the  two  sides  and 
back  of  the  crown,  have  emerald  centres, 
and  each  contains  between  one  and  two 
hundred  brilliant  diamonds.  Between  the 
four  Maltese  crosses  are  four  ornaments  in 
the  form  of  the  French  fleur-de-lis,  with 
four  rubies  in  the  centre,  and  surrounded 
by  rose  diamonds. 

From  the  Maltese  crosses  issue  four  im- 
perial arches,  composed  of  oak  leaves  and 
acorns  embellished  with  hundreds  of  mag- 
nificent jewels.  From  the  upper  part  of 
the  arches  are  suspended  four  large  pend- 
ant pear-shaped  pearls,  with  rose  diamond 
caps.  Above  the  arch  stands  the  mound, 


3n  tfje  Jflaafr  of  a  3FetoeI  155 

thickly  set  with  brilliants.  The  cross  on 
the  summit  has  a  rose  cut  sapphire  in  the 
centre,  surrounded  by  diamonds. 

A  gem  is  said  to  represent  "condensed 
wealth, "  and  it  is  also  condensed  history. 
The  blood  of  a  ruby,  the  faint  moonlight 
lustre  of  a  pearl,  the  green  glow  of  an 
emerald,  and  the  dazzling  white  light  of  a 
diamond — in  what  unfailing  magic  lies 
their  charm?  Tiny  bits  of  crystal  as  they 
appear  to  be — even  the  Orloff  diamond 
could  be  concealed  in  a  child's  hand — yet 
kings  and  queens  have  played  for  stakes 
like  these.  Battle  and  murder  have  been 
done  for  them,  honour  bartered  and 
kingdoms  lost,  but  the  old  magic  beauty 
never  fades,  and  to-day,  as  always,  sin  and 
beauty,  side,  by  side,  are  mirrored  in  the 
flash  of  a  jewel. 


Cbe  Coming  of  flfei?  Sbip 

OTRAIGHT  to  the  sunrise  my  ship's  sails 
v~/     are  leaning, 

Brave  at  the  masthead  her  new  colours  fly ; 
Down  on  the  shore,  her  lips  trembling  with 

meaning, 
Love  waits,  but  unanswering,  I  heed  not  her 

cry. 
The  gold  of  the  East  shall  be  mine  in  full 

measure, 
My  ship  shall  come  home  overflowing  with 

treasure, 

And  love  is  not  need,  but  only  a  pleasure, 
So  I  wait  for  my  ship  to  come  in. 

Silent,  half  troubled,  I  wait  in  the  shadow, 
No  sail  do  I  see  between  me  and  the  dawn; 
Out  in  the  blue  and  measureless  meadow, 
My  ship  wanders  widely,  but  Love  has  not 

gone. 
"My  arms    await  thee,"   she    cries  in  her 

pleading, 
"Why  wait  for  its  coming,  when  I  am  thy 

needing?" 

156 


Coming  of  flip  &W9          157 


I  pass  by  in  stillness,  all  else  unheeding, 
And  wait  for  my  ship  to  come  in. 

See,  in  the  East,  surrounded  by  splendour, 
My  sail  glimmers  whitely  in  crimson  and  blue  ; 
I  turn  back  to  Love,  my  heart  growing  tender, 
"Now  I  have  gold  and  leisure  for  you. 
Jewels    she   brings   for   thy   white   breast's 

adorning, 
Measures  of  gold  beyond  a  queen's  scorn- 

ing"- 
To-night    I    shall   rest  —  joy   comes   in   the 

morning, 
So  I  wait  for  my  ship  to  come  in. 

Remembering  waters  beat  cold  on  the  shore, 
And  the  grey  sea  in  sadness  grows  old; 
I  listen  in  vain  for  Love's  pleading  once  more, 
While  my  ship  comes  with  spices  and  gold. 
The  sea  birds  cry  hoarsely,  for  this  is  their 

songing, 
On  masthead  and  colours  their  white  wings 

are  thronging, 
But  my  soul  throbs  deep  with  love  and  with 

longing, 
And  I  wait  for  my  ship  to  come  in. 


IRomance  ant)  tfee  postman 

A  LETTER!  Do  the  charm  and  un- 
*^  certainty  of  it  ever  fade  ?  Who 
knows  what  may  be  written  upon  the 
pages  within! 

Far  back,  in  a  dim,  dream-haunted 
childhood,  the  first  letter  came  to  me.  It 
was  "a  really,  truly  letter,"  properly 
stamped  and  addressed,  and  duly  delivered 
by  the  postman.  With  what  wonder  the 
chubby  fingers  broke  the  seal!  It  did  not 
matter  that  there  was  an  inclosure  to  one's 
mother,  and  that  the  thing  itself  was 
written  by  an  adoring  relative;  it  was  a 
personal  letter,  of  private  and  particular 
importance,  and  that  day  the  postman 
assumed  his  rightful  place  in  one's  affairs. 
In  the  treasure  box  of  many  a  grand- 
mother is  hidden  a  pathetic  scrawl  that 

the  baby  made  for  her  and  called  "a  letter." 
158 


•Romance  anb  tfje  postman          159 

To  the  alien  eye,  it  is  a  mere  tangle  of 
pencil  marks,  and  the  baby  himself,  grown 
to  manhood,  with  children  of  his  own, 
would  laugh  at  the  yellowed  message, 
which  is  put  away  with  his  christening 
robe  and  his  first  shoes,  but  to  one,  at  least, 
it  speaks  with  a  deathless  voice. 

It  is  written  in  books  and  papers  that 
some  unhappy  mortals  are  swamped  with 
mail.  As  a  lady  recently  wrote  to  the 
President  of  the  United  States:  "I  suppose 
you  get  so  many  letters  that  when  you  see 
the  postman  coming  down  the  street,  you 
don't  care  whether  he  has  anything  for 
you  or  not. " 

Indeed,  the  President  might  well  think 
the  universe  had  gone  suddenly  wrong  if 
the  postman  passed  him  by,  but  there  are 
compensations  in  everything.  The  First 
Gentleman  of  the  Republic  must  inevitably 
miss  the  pleasant  emotions  which  letters 
bring  to  the  most  of  us. 

The  clerks  and  carriers  in  the  business 
centres  may  be  pardoned  if  they  lose  sight 
of  the  potentialities  of  the  letters  that  pass 


i6o        OHjreafcg  of  <grep  anb 


through  their  hands.  When  a  skyscraper 
is  a  postal  district  in  itself,  there  is  no  time 
for  the  man  in  grey  to  think  of  the  burden 
he  carries,  save  as  so  many  pounds  of 
dead  weight,  becoming  appreciably  lighter 
at  each  stop.  But  outside  the  hum  and 
bustle,  on  quiet  streets  and  secluded  by- 
ways, there  are  faces  at  the  windows, 
watching  eagerly  for  the  mail. 

The  progress  of  the  postman  is  akin  to  a 
Roman  triumph,  for  in  his  leathern  pack 
lies  Fate.  Long  experience  has  given  him 
a  sixth  sense,  as  if  the  letters  breathed  a 
hint  of  their  contents  through  their  super- 
scriptions. 

The  business  letter,  crisp  and  to  the 
point,  has  an  atmosphere  of  its  own,  even 
where  cross  lines  of  typewriting  do  not 
show  through  the  envelope. 

The  long,  rambling,  friendly  hand  is 
distinctive,  and  if  it  has  been  carried  in  the 
pocket  a  long  time  before  mailing,  the 
postman  knows  that  the  writer  is  a  married 
woman  with  a  foolish  trust  in  her  husband. 

Circulars  addressed  mechanically,  at  so 


Romance  anb  ttjc  postman          161 

much  a  thousand,  never  deceive  the  post- 
man, though  the  recipient  often  opens 
them  with  pleasurable  sensations,  which 
immediately  sink  to  zero.  And  the  love- 
letters!  The  carrier  is  a  veritable  Sher- 
lock Holmes  when  it  comes  to  them. 

Gradually  he  becomes  acquainted  with 
the  inmost  secrets  of  those  upon  his  route. 
Friendship,  love,  and  marriage,  absence 
and  return,  death,  and  one's  financial  con- 
dition, are  all  as  an  open  book  to  the  man  in 
grey.  Invitations,  cards,  wedding  an- 
nouncements, forlorn  little  letters  from 
those  to  whom  writing  is  not  as  easy  as 
speech,  childish  epistles  with  scrap  pictures 
pasted  on  the  outside,  all  give  an  inkling 
of  their  contents  to  the  man  who  delivers 
them. 

When  the  same  bill  comes  to  the  same 
house  for  a  long  and  regular  period,  then 
ceases,  even  the  carrier  must  feel  relieved 
to  know  that  it  has  been  paid.  When  he 
is  n't  too  busy,  he  takes  a  friendly  look  at 
the  postal  cards,  and  sometimes  saves  a 
tenant  in  a  third  flat  the  weariness  of  two 


1 62         ^fjrea'os  of  <&rep  anb  <&olb 

flights  of  stairs  by  shouting  the  news  up  the 
tube! 

If  the  dweller  in  a  tenement  has  ingratia- 
ting manners,  he  may  learn  how  many 
papers,  and  letters  are  being  stuffed  into 
the  letter-box,  by  a  polite  inquiry  down 
the  tube  when  the  bell  rings.  Through  the 
subtle  freemasonry  of  the  postman's  voice 
a  girl  knows  that  her  lover  has  not  forgot- 
ten her — and  her  credit  is  good  for  the 
"two  cents  due"  if  the  tender  missive  is 
overweight. 

"All  the  world  loves  a  lover,"  and  even 
the  busy  postman  takes  a  fatherly  interest 
in  the  havoc  wrought  by  Cupid  along  his 
route.  The  little  blind  god  knows  neither 
times  nor  seasons — all  alike  are  his  own — 
but  the  man  in  grey,  old  and  spectacled 
though  he  may  be,  is  his  confidential 
messenger. 

Love-letters  are  seemingly  immortal. 
A  clay  tablet  on  which  one  of  the  Pharaohs 
wrote,  asking  for  the  heart  and  hand  of  a 
beautiful  foreign  princess,  is  now  in  the 
British  Museum.  But  suppose  the  post- 


Romance  anli  tfje  $ofitman         163 

man  had  not  been  sure-footed,  and  all  the 
clay  letters  had  been  smashed  into  frag- 
ments in  a  single  grand  catastrophe !  What 
a  stir  in  high  places,  what  havoc  in  Church 
and  State,  and  how  many  fond  hearts 
broken,  if  the  postman  had  fallen  down! 

"Nothing  feeds  the  flame  like  a  letter," 
said  Emerson;  "it  has  intent,  personality, 
secrecy."  Flimsy  and  frail  as  it  is,  so 
easily  torn  or  destroyed,  the  love-letter 
many  times  outlasts  the  love.  Even  the 
Father  of  his  Country,  though  he  has  been 
dead  this  hundred  years  or  more,  has  left 
behind  him  a  love-letter,  ragged  and  faded, 
but  still  legible,  beginning:  "My  Dearest 
Life  and  Love." 

"Matter  is  indestructible,"  so  the 
scientists  say,  but  what  of  the  love-letter 
that  is  reduced  to  ashes?  Does  its  passion 
live  again  in  some  far-off  violet  flame,  or, 
rising  from  its  dust,  bloom  once  more  in  a 
fragrant  rose,  to  touch  the  lips  of  another 
love? 

In  countless  secret  places,  the  tender 
missives  are  hidden,  for  the  lover  must 


164         QDfjreafcs  of  <©rep  anti 


always  keep  his  joy  in  tangible  form,  to  be 
sure  that  it  was  not  a  dream.  They  fly 
through  the  world  by  day  and  night,  like 
white-  winged  birds  that  can  say,  "I  love 
you"  —  over  mountain,  hill,  stream,  and 
plain;  past  sea  and  lake  and  river,  through 
the  desert's  fiery  heat  and  amid  the 
throbbing  pulses  of  civilisation,  with  never 
a  mistake,  to  bring  exquisite  rapture  to 
another  heart  and  wings  of  light  to  the 
loved  one's  soul. 

Under  the  pillow  of  the  maiden,  her 
lover's  letter  brings  visions  of  happiness 
too  great  for  the  human  heart  to  hold. 
Even  in  her  dreams,  her  fingers  tighten 
upon  his  letter  —  the  visible  assurance  of 
his  unchanging  and  unchangeable  love. 

When  the  bugle  sounds  the  charge,  and 
dimly  through  the  flash  and  flame  the 
flag  signals  "Follow!"  many  a  heart, 
leaping  to  answer  with  the  hot  blood  of 
youth,  finds  a  sudden  tenderness  in  the 
midst  of  its  high  courage,  from  the  loving 
letter  which  lies  close  to  the  soldier's 
breast. 


Romance  anb  tfje  Postman         165 

Bunker  Hill  and  Gettysburg,  Moscow 
and  the  Wilderness,  Waterloo,  Mafeking, 
and  San  Juan — the  old  blood-stained  fields 
and  the  modern  scenes  of  terror  have 
all  alike  known  the  same  message  and 
the  same  thrill.  The  faith  and  hope  of  the 
living,  the  kiss  and  prayer  of  the  dying,  the 
cries  of  the  wounded,  and  the  hot  tears  of 
those  who  have  parted  forever,  are  on  the 
blood-stained  pages  of  the  love-letters  that 
have  gone  to  war. 

"Ich  Hebe  Dich, "  "Je  t'aime, "  or,  in  our 
dear  English  speech,  "I  love  you," — it  is 
all  the  same,  for  the  heart  knows  the 
universal  language,  the  words  of  which  are 
gold,  bedewed  with  tears  that  shine  like 
precious  stones. 

Every  attic  counts  old  love-letters  among 
its  treasures,  and  when  the  rain  beats  on 
the  roof  and  grey  swirls  of  water  are  blown 
against  the  pane,  one  may  sit  among  the 
old  trunks  and  boxes  and  bring  to  light 
the  loves  of  days  gone  by. 

The  little  hair-cloth  trunk,  with  its 
rusty  lock  and  broken  hinges,  brings  to 


i66        {Efjreaba  of  <§r*p  anto 


mind  a  rosy-cheeked  girl  in  a  poke  bonnet, 
who  went  a-visiting  in  the  stage-coach. 
Inside  is  the  bonnet  itself  —  white,  with  a 
gorgeous  trimming  of  pink  "lute-string" 
ribbon,  which  has  faded  into  ashes  of  roses 
at  the  touch  of  the  kindly  years. 

From  the  trunk  comes  a  musty  fragrance 
—lavender,  sweet  clover,  rosemary,  thyme, 
and  the  dried  petals  of  roses  that  have 
long  since  crumbled  to  dust.  Scraps  of 
brocade  and  taffeta,  yellowed  lingerie,  and 
a  quaint  old  wedding  gown,  daguerreo- 
types in  ornate  cases,  and  then  the  letters, 
tied  with  faded  ribbon,  in  a  package  by 
themselves. 

The  fingers  unconsciously  soften  to  their 
task,  for  the  letters  are  old  and  yellow,  and 
the  ink  has  faded  to  brown.  Every  one 
was  cut  open  with  the  scissors,  not  hastily 
torn  according  to  our  modern  fashion,  but 
in  a  slow  and  seemly  manner,  as  befits  a 
solemn  occasion. 

Perhaps  the  sweet  face  of  a  great- 
grandmother  grew  much  perplexed  at  the 
sight  of  a  letter  in  an  unfamiliar  hand,  and 


Romance  ant)  tljc  postman          167 

perhaps,  too,  as  is  the  way  of  womankind, 
she  studied  the  outside  a  long  time  before 
she  opened  it.  As  the  months  passed  by, 
the  handwriting  became  familiar,  but  a 
coquettish  grandmother  may  have  flirted 
a  bit  with  the  letter,  and  put  it  aside — 
until  she  could  be  alone. 

All  the  important  letters  are  in  the 
package,  from  the  first  formal  note  asking 
permission  to  call,  which  a  womanly 
instinct  bade  the  maiden  put  aside,  to 
the  last  letter,  written  when  twilight  lay 
upon  the  long  road  they  had  travelled  to- 
gether, but  still  beginning:  "  My  Dear  and 
Honoured  Wife." 

Bits  of  rosemary  and  geranium,  lemon 
verbena,  tuberose,  and  heliotrope,  fragile 
and  whitened,  but  still  sweet,  fall  from  the 
opened  letters  and  rustle  softly  as  they  fall. 

Far  away  in  the  "peace  which  passeth 
all  understanding,"  the  writer  of  the 
letters  sleeps,  but  the  old  love  keeps  a 
fragrance  that  outlives  the  heart  in  which 
it  bloomed. 

At   night,    when    the   fires   below   are 


i68        {Efjreab*  of  <Srep  anfc 


lighted,  and  childish  voices  make  the  old 
house  ring  with  laughter,  Memory  steals 
into  the  attic  to  sing  softly  of  the  past,  as 
a  mother  croons  her  child  to  sleep. 

Rocking  in  a  quaint  old  attic  chair,  with 
the  dear  familiar  things  of  home  gathered 
all  about  her,  Memory's  voice  is  sweet, 
like  a  harp  tuned  in  the  minor  mode  when 
the  south  wind  sweeps  the  strings. 

Bunches  of  herbs  swing  from  the  rafters 
and  fill  the  room  with  the  wholesome  scent 
of  an  old-fashioned  garden,  where  rue  and 
heartsease  grew.  With  the  fragrance 
comes  the  breath  from  that  garden  of 
Mnemosyne,  where  the  simples  for  heart- 
ache nod  beside  the  River  of  Forgetfulness. 

In  a  flash  the  world  is  forgotten,  and 
into  the  attic  come  dear  faces  from  that 
distant  land  of  childhood,  where  a  strange 
enchantment  glorified  the  common-place, 
and  made  the  dreams  of  night  seem  real. 
Footsteps  that  have  long  been  silent  are 
heard  upon  the  attic  floor,  and  voices, 
hushed  for  years,  whisper  from  the  shadows 
from  the  other  end  of  the  room. 


Romance  anto  tfje  -postman         169 

A  moonbeam  creeps  into  the  attic  and 
transfigures  the  haunted  chamber  with  a 
sheen  of  silver  mist.  From  the  spinning- 
wheel  come  a  soft  hum  and  a  delicate 
whir;  then  a  long-lost  voice  breathes  the 
first  notes  of  an  old,  old  song.  The 
melody  changes  to  a  minuet,  and  the  lady 
in  the  portrait  moves,  smiling,  from  the 
tarnished  gilt  frame  that  surrounds  her — 
then  a  childish  voice  says:  "Mother,  are 
you  asleep?" 

Down  the  street  the  postman  passes, 
bearing  his  burden  of  joy  and  pain :  let- 
ters from  far-off  islands,  where  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  gleam  against  a  forest  of 
palms;  from  the  snow-bound  fastnesses  of 
the  North,  where  men  are  searching  for 
gold;  from  rose-scented  valleys  and  violet 
fields,  where  the  sun  forever  shines,  and 
from  lands  across  the  sea,  where  men  speak 
an  alien  tongue — single  messages  from  one 
to  another;  letters  that  plead  for  pardon 
cross  the  paths  of  those  that  are  meant  to 
stab;  letters  written  in  jest  too  often  find 
grim  earnest  at  the  end  of  their  journey, 


170         tEfjreabtf  of  4§rep  anb 


and  letters  written  in  all  tenderness  meet 
misunderstandings  and  pain,  when  the 
postman  brings  them  home;  letters  that 
deal  with  affairs  of  state  and  shape  the 
destiny  of  a  nation;  tidings  of  happiness 
and  sorrow,  birth  and  death,  love  and  trust, 
and  the  thousand  pangs  of  trust  betrayed; 
an  hundred  joys  and  as  many  griefs  are 
all  in  the  postman's  hands. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  there  is  a  stir  in 
the  house,  that  eyes  brighten,  hearts  beat 
quickly,  and  eager  steps  hasten  to  the  door 
of  destiny,  when  the  postman  rings  the 
bell! 


H  Summer  IReverie 

I  SIT  on  the  shore  of  the  deep  blue  sea 
As  the  tide  comes  rolling  in, 
And  wonder,  as  roaming  in  sunlit  dreams, 
The  cause  of  the  breakers'  din. 

For  each  of  the  foam-crowned  billows 

Has  a  wonderful  story  to  tell, 
And  the  surge's  mystical  music 

Seems  wrought  by  a  fairy  spell. 

I  wander  through  memory's  portals, 
Through  mansions  dim  and  vast, 

And  gaze  at  the  beautiful  pictures 
That  hang  in  the  halls  of  the  past. 

And  dream-faces  gather  around  me, 

With  voices  soft  and  low, 
To  draw  me  back  to  the  pleasures 

Of  the  lands  of  long  ago. 

There  are  visions  of  beauty  and  splendour, 
And  a  fame  that  I  never  can  win — 

Far  out  on  the  deep  they  are  sailing — 
My  ships  that  will  never  come  in. 
171 


H  IDignette 

TT  was  a  muddy  down-town  corner  and 
*  several  people  stood  in  the  cold, 
waiting  for  a  street-car.  A  stand  of  daily 
papers  was  on  the  sidewalk,  guarded  by  two 
little  newsboys.  One  was  much  younger 
than  the  other,  and  he  rolled  two  marbles 
back  and  forth  in  the  mud  by  the  curb. 
Suddenly  his  attention  was  attracted  by 
something  bright  above  him,  and  he  looked 
up  into  a  bunch  of  red  carnations  a  young 
lady  held  in  her  hands.  He  watched  them 
eagerly,  seemingly  unable  to  take  his  eyes 
from  the  feast  of  colour.  She  saw  the 
hungry  look  in  the  little  face,  and  put  one 
into  his  hand.  He  was  silent,  until  his 
brother  said:  "Say  thanky  to  the  lady." 
He  whispered  his  thanks,  and  then  she  bent 
down  and  pinned  the  blossom  upon  his 
ragged  jacket,  while  the  big  policeman  on 

the  corner  smiled  approvingly. 
172 


a  \7fgnette  173 

"My,  but  you  're  gay  now,  and  you  can 
sell  all  your  papers,"  the  bigger  boy  said 
tenderly. 

"Yep,  I  can  sell  'em  now,  sure!" 

Out  of  the  crowd  on  the  opposite  corner 
came  a  tiny,  dark-skinned  Italian  girl,  with 
an  accordion  slung  over  her  shoulder  by  a 
dirty  ribbon;  she  made  straight  for  the 
carnations  and  fearlessly  cried,  "Lady, 
please  give  me  a  flower !  "  She  got  one,  and 
quickly  vanished  in  the  crowd. 

The  young  woman  walked  up  the  street 
to  a  flower-stand  to  replenish  her  bunch 
of  carnations,  and  when  she  returned, 
another  dark-skinned  mite  rushed  up  to  her 
without  a  word,  only  holding  up  grimy 
hands  with  a  gesture  of  pathetic  appeal. 
Another  brilliant  blossom  went  to  her,  and 
the  young  woman  turned  to  follow  her; 
on  through  the  crowd  the  child  fled,  until 
she  reached  the  corner  where  her  mother 
stood,  seamed  and  wrinkled  and  old,  with 
the  dark  pathetic  eyes  of  sunny  Italy.  She 
held  the  flower  out  to  her,  and  the  weary 
mother  turned  and  snatched  it  eagerly, 


174        {Efrreaotf  of  <©rep  anb  dlolb 

then  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  and  kissed  it  as 
passionately  as  if  it  had  been  the  child  who 
brought  it  to  her. 

Just  then  the  car  came,  and  the  big  grey 
policeman  helped  the  owner  of  the  carna- 
tions across  the  street,  and  said  as  he  put 
her  on  the  car,  "Lady,  you  Ve  sure  done 
them  children  a  good  turn  to-day. " 


flDebitation 

I  SAIL  through  the  realms  of  the  long  ago, 
Wafted  by  fancy  and  visions  frail, 
On  the  river  Time  with  its  gentle  flow, 
In  a  silver  boat  with  a  golden  sail. 

My  dreams,  in  the  silence  are  hurrying  by 
On  the  brooklet  of  Thought  where  I  let  them 
flow, 

And  the  "  lilies  nod  to  the  sound  of  the  stream" 
As  I  sail  through  the  realms  of  the  long  ago. 

On  the  shores  of  life's  deep-flowing  stream 
Are  my  countless  sorrows  and  heartaches, 
too, 

And  the  hills  of  hope  are  but  dimly  seen, 
Far  in  the  distance,  near  heaven's  blue. 

I  find  that  my  childish  thoughts  and  dreams 

Lie  strewn  on  the  sands  by  the  cruel  blast 

That   scattered   my  hopes   on  the    restless 

streams 

That  flow  through  the  mystic  realms  of  the 
past. 


pointers  for  tbe  Olorfce  of  Creation 

OOME  wit  has  said  that  the  worst  vice 
^  in  the  world  is  advice,  and  it  is  also 
quite  true  that  one  ignorant,  though  well- 
meaning  person  can  sometimes  accomplish 
more  damage  in  a  short  time,  than  a  dozen 
people  who  start  out  for  the  purpose  of 
doing  mischief. 

The  newspapers  and  periodicals  of  to- 
day are  crowded  with  advice  to  women,  and 
while  much  of  it  is  found  in  magazines  for 
women,  written  and  edited  by  men,  it  is 
also  true  that  a  goodly  quantity  of  it  comes 
from  feminine  writers;  it  is  all  along  the 
same  lines,  however,  the  burden  of  effort 
being  to  teach  the  weaker  sex  how  to 
become  more  attractive  and  more  lovable 
to  the  lords  of  creation.  It  is,  of  course,  all 
intended  for  our  good,  for  if  we  can  only 

please  the  men,  and  obey  their  slightest 
176 


for  tfjc  Horba  of  Creation   177 


wish  even  before  they  take  the  trouble  to 
mention  the  matter,  we  can  then  be  per- 
fectly happy. 

A  man  can  sit  down  any  day  and  give 
us  directions  enough  to  keep  us  busy  for  a 
lifetime,  and  we  seldom  or  never  return  the 
compliment.  This  is  manifestly  unfair, 
and  so  this  little  preachment  is  meant  for 
the  neglected  and  deserving  men,  and  for 
them  only,  so  that  all  women  who  have 
read  thus  far  are  invited  to  leave  the  matter 
right  here  and  turn  their  attention  to  the 
column  of  "Advice  to  Women  "  which 
they  can  find  in  almost  any  periodical. 

In  the  first  place,  gentlemen,  we  must 
admit  that  you  do  keep  us  guessing, 
though  we  do  not  sit  up  nights  nor  lose 
much  sleep  over  your  queer  notions. 

We  can't  ask  you  many  questions,  either, 
dear  brethren,  for,  as  you  know,  you  rather 
like  to  fib  to  us,  and  sometimes  we  are  able 
to  find  it  out,  and  then  we  never  believe 
you  any  more. 

We  may  venture,  however,  to  ask  small 
favours  of  you,  and  one  of  these  is  that  you 


178        tEfjreafcg  of  <&rej>  anb  dlolb 

do  not  wear  red  ties.  You  look  so  nice  in 
quiet  colours  that  we  dislike  exceedingly  to 
have  you  make  crazy  quilts  of  yourselves, 
and  that  is  just  what  you  do  when  you 
begin  experimenting  with  colours  which 
we  naturally  associate  with  the  "cullud 
pussons." 

And  a  cane  may  be  very  ornamental,  but 
it 's  of  no  earthly  use,  and  we  would  rather 
you  would  not  carry  it  when  you  go  out 
with  us. 

Never  tell  us  you  have  n't  had  time  to 
come  and  see  us,  or  write  to  us,  because  we 
know  perfectly  well  that  if  you  wanted 
to  badly  enough,  you  would  take  the  time, 
so  the  excuse  makes  us  even  madder  than 
does  the  neglect.  Still,  when  you  don't 
want  to  come,  we  would  not  have  you  do 
it  for  anything. 

There  is  an  old  saying  that  "absence 
makes  the  heart  grow  fonder" — so  it  does 
— of  the  other  fellow.  We  don't  propose 
to  shed  any  tears  over  you ;  we  simply  go  to 
the  theatre  with  the  other  man  and  have 
an  extremely  good  time.  When  you  are 


•pointer*  for  tfje  ICorbs  of  Creation   179 

very,  very  bright,  you  can  manage  some 
way  not  to  allow  us  to  forget  you  for  a 
minute,  nor  give  us  much  time  to  think 
of  anything  else. 

When  we  are  angry,  for  heaven's  sake 
don't  ask  us  why,  because  that  shows  your 
lack  of  penetration.  Just  simply  call 
yourself  a  brute,  and  say  you  are  utterly 
unworthy  of  even  our  faint  regard,  and  you 
will  soon  realise  that  this  covers  a  lot  of 
ground,  and  everything  will  be  all  right  in 
a  few  minutes. 

And  whatever  you  do,  don't  show  any 
temper  yourself.  A  woman  requires  of  a 
man  that  he  shall  be  as  immovable  as  the 
rock  of  Gibraltar,  no  matter  what  she  does 
to  him.  And  you  play  your  strongest  card 
when  you  don't  mind  our  tantrums — even 
though  it 's  a  state  secret  we  are  telling 
you. 

Don't  get  huffy  when  you  meet  us  with 
another  man ;  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  that 's 
just  what  we  do  it  for.  And  don't  make  the 
mistake  of  retaliating  by  asking  another 
girl  somewhere.  You  '11  have  a  perfectly 


i8o        tEijreab*  of  <Srep  anb 


miserable  time  if  you  do,  both  then  and 
afterward. 

When  you  do  come  to  see  us,  it  is  not  at 
all  nice  to  spend  the  entire  evening  talking 
about  some  other  girl.  How  would  you  like 
to  have  the  graces  of  some  other  man 
continually  dinned  into  your  ears?  Some- 
times we  take  that  way  in  order  to  get  a 
rest  from  your  overweening  raptures  over 
the  absent  girl. 

We  have  a  well-defined  suspicion  that 
you  talk  us  over  with  your  chums  and 
compare  notes.  But,  bless  you,  it  can't 
possibly  hold  a  candle  to  the  thorough  and 
impartial  discussions  that  some  of  you  get 
when  girls  are  together,  either  in  small 
bevies,  or  with  only  one  chosen  friend. 
And  we  don't  very  much  care  what  you 
say  about  us,  for  a  man  never  judges  a 
woman  by  the  opinion  of  any  one  else,  but 
another  woman's  opinion  counts  for  a  great 
deal  with  us,  so  you  would  better  be  careful. 

If  you  are  going  to  say  things  that  you 
don't  mean,  try  to  stamp  them  with  the 
air  of  sincerity  —  if  you  can  once  get  a 


•pointers!  for  tfje  Horb*  of  Creation   181 

woman  to  fully  believe  in  your  sincerity, 
you  have  gone  a  long  way  toward  her  heart. 

Have  n't  you  found  out  that  women  are 
not  particularly  interested  in  anecdotes? 
Please  don't  tell  us  more  than  fifteen  in  the 
same  evening. 

And  don't  begin  to  make  love  to  us  before 
you  have  had  time  to  make  a  favourable 
impression  along  several  lines — a  man,  as 
well  as  a  woman,  loses  ground  and  forfeits 
respect  by  making  himself  too  cheap. 

If  a  girl  runs  and  stereams  when  she  has 
been  caught  standing  under  the  mistletoe, 
it  means  that  she  will  not  object;  if  she 
stiffens  up  and  glares  at  you,  it  means  that 
she  does.  The  same  idea  is  sometimes 
delicately  conveyed  by  the  point  of  a  pin. 
But  a  woman  will  be  able  to  forgive  almost 
anything  which  you  can  make  her  believe 
was  prompted  by  her  own  attractiveness, 
at  least  unless  she  knows  men  fairly  well. 

You  know,  of  course,  that  we  will  not 
show  your  letters,  nor  tell  when  you  ask 
us  to  marry  you  and  are  refused.  This 
much  a  woman  owes  to  any  man  who  has 


182        (Eijteabs  of  <&rep  anb 


honoured  her  with  an  offer  of  marriage  —  to 
keep  his  perfect  trust  sacredly  in  her  own 
heart.  Even  her  future  husband  has  no 
business  to  know  of  this  —  it  is  her  lover's 
secret,  and  she  has  no  right  to  betray  it. 

Keeping  the  love-letters  and  the  offers 
of  marriage  from  any  honourable  man  safe 
from  a  prying  world  are  points  of  honour 
which  all  good  women  possess,  although  we 
may  sometimes  quote  certain  things  from 
your  letters,  as  you  do  from  ours. 

There  's  nothing  you  can  tell  a  woman 
which  will  please  her  quite  so  much  as  that 
knowing  her  has  made  you  better,  es- 
pecially if  you  can  prove  it  by  showing  a 
decided  upward  tendency  in  your  morals. 
That  's  your  good  right  bower,  but  don't 
play  it  too  often  —  keep  it  for  special 
occasions. 

There  's  one  mistake  you  make,  dear 
brethren,  and  that  is  telling  a  woman  you 
love  her  as  soon  as  you  find  it  out  yourself, 
and  the  most  of  you  will  do  that  very  thing. 
There  is  one  case  on  record  where  a  man 
waited  fifteen  minutes,  but  he  nearly  died 


•pointer*  for  tfjc  Horba  of  Creation   183 

of  the  strain.  The  trouble  is  that  you 
seldom  stop  to  consider  whether  we  are 
ready  to  hear  you  or  not,  nor  whether  the 
coast  is  clear,  nor  what  the  chances  are 
in  your  favour.  You  simply  relieve  your 
mind,  and  trust  in  your  own  wonderful 
charms  to  accomplish  the  rest. 

And  we  wish  that  when  the  proper  time 
comes  for  you  to  speak  your  mind  you  'd 
try  to  do  it  artistically.  Of  course  you 
can't  write  it,  unless  you  are  far  away  from 
her,  for  if  you  can  manage  an  opportunity 
to  speak,  a  resort  to  the  pen  is  cowardly. 
And  don't  mind  our  evading  the  subject — 
we  always  do  that  on  principle,  but  please 
don't  be  scared,  or  at  least  don't  show  it, 
whatever  you  may  feel.  If  there  is  one 
thing  a  woman  dislikes  more  than  another 
it  is  a  man  who  shows  cowardice  at  the 
crucial  point  in  life. 

Every  man,  except  yourself,  dear  reader, 
is  conceited.  And  one  particular  sort  of  it 
makes  us  very,  very  weary.  You  are  so 
blinded  by  your  own  perfections,  so  sure 
that  we  are  desperately  in  love  with  you, 


184        tE&reafcg  ot  <&rep  anfc 


that  you  sometimes  give  us  little  unspoken 
suggestions  to  that  effect,  and  then  our 
disgust  is  beyond  words. 

Another  cowardly  thing  you  sometimes 
do,  and  that  is  to  say  that  we  have  spoiled 
your  life  —  that  we  could  have  made  you 
anything  we  pleased  —  and  that  you  are 
going  straight  to  perdition.  If  one  woman 
is  all  that  keeps  you  from  going  to  ruin, 
you  have  secured  a  through  ticket  anyway, 
and  it  's  too  late  to  save  you.  You  don't 
want  a  woman  who  might  marry  you  only 
out  of  pity,  and  you  are  not  going  to  die  of 
a  broken  heart.  Men  die  of  broken  vanity, 
sometimes,  but  their  hearts  are  pretty 
tough,  being  made  of  healthy  muscle. 

You  get  married  very  much  as  you  go 
down  town  in  the  morning.  You  run,  like 
all  possessed,  until  you  catch  your  car,  and 
then  you  sit  down  and  read  your  news- 
paper. When  you  think  your  wife  looks 
unusually  well,  it  would  not  hurt  you  in  the 
least  to  tell  her  so,  and  the  way  you  leave 
her  in  the  morning  is  going  to  settle  her 
happiness  for  the  day,  though  she  may  be 


-pointer*  for  tije  Uorbs  of  Creation   185 

too  proud  to  let  you  know  that  it  makes 
any  difference.  Women  are  quick  to 
detect  a  sham,  and  they  don't  want  you  to 
say  anything  that  you  don't  feel,  but  you 
are  pretty  sure  to  feel  tenderly  toward  her 
sometimes,  careless  though  you  may  be, 
and  then  is  the  time  to  tell  her  so.  You 
don't  want  to  wait  until  she  is  dead,  and 
then  buy  a  lily  to  put  on  her  coffin.  You  'd 
better  bring  her  the  lily  some  time  when 
you  Ve  been  cross  and  grumpy. 

But  don't  imagine  that  a  present  of  any 
kind  ever  atones  for  a  hurt  that  has  been 
given  in  words.  There  's  nothing  you  can 
say  which  is  more  manly  or  which  will  do 
you  both  so  much  good  as  the  simple 
"forgive  me"  when  you  have  been  wrong. 

Rest  assured,  gentlemen,  that  you  who 
spend  the  most  of  your  evenings  in  other 
company,  and  too  often  find  fault  with  your 
meals  when  you  come  home,  are  the  cause 
of  many  sorrowful  talks  among  the  women 
who  are  wise  enough  to  know,  even  though 
your  loyal  wife  may  put  up  a  brave  front 
in  your  defense. 


186         {Efjreafcg  of  <£rej>  anto 


How  often  do  you  suppose  the  brave 
woman  who  loves  you  has  been  actually 
driven  in  her  agony  to  some  married  friend 
whom  she  can  trust  and  upon  her  sym- 
pathetic bosom  has  cried  until  she  could 
weep  no  more,  simply  because  of  your 
thoughtless  neglect?  How  often  do  you 
think  she  has  planned  little  things  to  make 
your  home-coming  pleasant,  which  you 
have  never  noticed?  And  how  often  do 
you  suppose  she  has  desperately  fought 
down  the  heartache  and  tried  to  believe 
that  your  absorption  in  business  is  the 
reason  for  your  forgetfulness  of  her? 

Do  you  ever  think  of  these  things?  Do 
you  ever  think  of  the  days  before  you  were 
sure  of  her,  when  you  treasured  every  line 
of  her  letters,  and  would  have  bartered 
your  very  hopes  of  heaven  for  the  earthly 
life  with  her? 

But  perhaps  you  can  hardly  be  expected 
to  remember  the  wild  sprint  that  you  made 
from  the  breakfast  table  to  the  street-car. 


transition 

I  AM  thy  Pleasure.    See,  my  face  is  fair — 
With  silken  strands  of  joy  I  twine  thee 

round ; 

Life  has  enough  of  stress — forget  with  me ! 
Wilt  thou  not  stay?    Then  go,  thou  art  not 
bound. 

I  am  thy  Pastime.     Let  me  be  to  thee 
A  daily  refuge  from  the  haunting  fears 

That  bind  thee,  choke  thee,  fill  thy  soul  with 

woe. 
Seek  thou  my  hand,  let  me  assuage  thy  tears. 

I  am  thy  Habit.     Nay,  start  not,  thy  will 
Is  yet  supreme,  for  art  thou  not  a  man? 

Then  draw  me  close  to  thee,  for  life  is  brief — 
A  little  space  to  pass  as  best  one  can. 

I  am  thy  Passion.    Thou  shalt  cling  to  me 
Through  all  the  years  to  come.     The  silken 

cord 

Of  Pleasure  has  become  a  stronger  bond, 
Not  to  be  cleft,  nor  loosened  at  a  word. 
187 


i88         3H}teab£  of  <@rep  anti 


I  am  thy  Master.     Thou  shalt  crush  for  me 
The  grapes  of  truth  for  wine  of  sacrifice; 

My  clanking  chains  were  forged  for  such  as 

thee, 
I  am  thy  Master  —  yea,  I  am  thy  vice! 


Gfoe  Superiority  of  flDan 

A^TlTHOUT  pausing  to  inquire  why 
*  *  savages  and  barbarians  are  cap- 
able of  producing  college  professors,  who 
sneer  at  the  source  from  which  they  sprung, 
we  may  accept  for  the  moment  the  mas- 
culine hypothesis  of  intellectual  superiority. 
Some  women  have  been  heard  to  say  that 
they  wish  they  had  been  born  men,  but 
there  is  no  man  bold  enough  to  say  that 
he  would  like  to  be  a  woman. 

If  woman  can  produce  a  reasoning  being, 
it  follows  that  she  herself  must  be  capable 
of  reasoning,  since  a  stream  can  rise  no 
higher  than  its  fountain.  And  yet  the 
bitter  truth  stares  us  in  the  face.  We 
have  no  Shakespeare,  Michelangelo,  or 
Beethoven;  our  Darwins,  our  Schumanns 
are  mute  and  inglorious;  our  Miltons, 
Raphaels,  and  Herbert  Spencers  have  not 

arrived. 

189 


190        Breads  of  <§rep  anti 


Call  the  roll  of  the  great  and  how  many 
women's  names  will  be  found  there? 
Scarcely  enough  to  enable  you  to  call  the 
company  mixed. 

No  woman  in  her  senses  wishes  to  be 
merely  the  female  of  man.  She  aspires  to 
be  distinctly  different  —  to  exercise  her 
varied  powers  in  wholly  different  ways. 
Ex-President  Roosevelt  said:  "Equality 
does  not  imply  identity  of  function.  "  We 
do  not  care  to  put  in  telephones  or  to  collect 
fares  on  a  street-car. 

Primitive  man  set  forth  from  his  cave 
to  kill  an  animal  or  two,  then  repaired  to  a 
secluded  nook  in  the  jungle,  with  other 
primitive  men,  to  discuss  the  beginnings  of 
politics.  Primitive  woman  in  the  cave 
not  only  dressed  his  game,  but  she  cooked 
the  animal  for  food,  made  clothing  of  its 
skin,  necklaces  and  bracelets  of  its  teeth, 
passementerie  of  its  claws,  and  needles  of 
its  sharper  bones.  What  wonder  that  she 
had  no  time  for  an  afternoon  tea? 

The  man  of  the  twentieth  century  has 
progressed  immeasurably  beyond  this,  but 


^>uperton'tp  of  iHan  191 


his  wife,  industrially  speaking,  has  not 
gone  half  so  far.  Is  she  not  still  in  some 
cases  a  cave-dweller,  while  he  roams  the 
highways  of  the  world? 

If  a  woman  mends  men's  socks,  should 
he  not  darn  her  lisle-thread  hosiery,  and  run 
a  line  of  machine  stitching  around  the 
middle  of  the  hem  to  prevent  a  disastrous 
run  from  a  broken  stitch?  If  she  presses 
his  ties,  why  should  he  not  learn  to  iron 
her  bits  of  fine  lace? 

Some  one  will  say  :  "But  he  supports  her. 
It  is  her  duty." 

"Yes,  dear  friend,  but  similarly  does  he 
'support'  the  servant  who  does  the  same 
duties.  He  also  gives  her  seven  dollars 
every  Monday  morning,  or  she  leaves." 
Are  we  to  suppose  that  a  wife  is  a  woman 
who  does  general  housework  for  board  and 
clothes,  with  a  few  kind  words  thrown  in? 

A  German  lady,  whom  we  well  knew, 
worked  all  the  morning  attending  to  the 
comforts  of  her  liege  lord.  In  the  dining 
room  he  was  stretched  out  in  an  easy  chair, 
while  the  queen  of  his  heart  brushed  and 


192         ZEfjreatifi  of  <0rep  anti 


repaired  his  clothes  —  yes,  and  blacked  his 
boots!  Doubtless  for  a  single  kiss,  re- 
dolent of  beer  and  sausages,  she  would  have 
pressed  his  trousers.  Kind  words  and  the 
fragrant  osculation  had  already  saved  him 
three  dollars  at  his  tailor'.s. 

By  such  gold-brick  methods,  dear  friends, 
do  men  get  good  service  cheap.  Would 
that  we  could  do  the  same!  Here,  and 
gladly,  we  admit  masculine  superiority. 

Our  short-sightedness,  our  weakness  for 
kind  words,  our  graceful  acceptance  of  the 
entire  responsibility  for  the  home,  have 
chained  us  to  the  earth,  while  our  lords 
soar.  After  having  worked  steadily  for 
some  six  thousand  years  to  populate  the 
earth  passably,  some  of  us  may  now  be 
excused  from  that  duty. 

Motherhood  is  a  career  for  which  especial 
talents  are  required.  Very  few  women 
know  how  to  bring  up  children  properly. 
If  you  don't  believe  it,  look  at  the  difference 
between  our  angelic  offspring,  and  the 
little  imps  next  door  !  It  is  as  unreasonable 
to  suppose  that  all  women  can  be  good 


of  4flan  193 


mothers  as  it  is  to  suppose  that  all  women 
can  sing  in  grand  opera. 

And  yet,  let  us  hug  to  our  weary  hearts, 
in  our  most  discouraged  moments,  the  great 
soul-satisfying  truth  that  men,  no  matter 
what  they  say  or  write,  think  that  we  are 
smarter  than  they  are.  Otherwise,  they 
would  not  expect  of  us  so  much  more  than 
they  can  possibly  do  themselves. 

In  every  field  of  woman's  work  outside 
the  house,  the  same  illustration  applies. 
They  also  think  that  we  possess  greater 
physical  strength.  They  chivalrously 
shield  us  from  the  exhausting  effort  of 
voting,  but  allow  us  to  stand  in  the  street- 
cars, wash  dishes,  push  a  baby  carriage, 
and  scrub  the  kitchen  floor.  Should  we 
not  be  proud  because  they  consider  us  so 
much  stronger  and  wiser  than  they?  In- 
terruptions are  fatal  to  their  work,  as  the 
wife  of  even  a  business  man  will  testify. 

What  would  have  become  of  Spencer's 
Data  of  Ethics  if,  while  he  was  writing  it,  he 
had  two  dressmakers  in  the  house?  Should 
we  have  had  Hamlet,  if  at  the  comple- 


194        {Efjreabsf  of  <&rep  anb  <@olb 

tion  of  the  first  act  Mr.  Shakespeare  had 
given  birth  to  twins,  when  he  had  made 
clothes  for  only  one? 

The  great  charm  of  marriage,  as  of  life 
itself,  is  its  unexpectedness.  The  only 
way  to  test  a  man  is  to  marry  him.  If  you 
live,  it  's  a  mushroom;  if  you  die,  it  's  a 
toadstool ! 

Or,  as  another  saying  goes:  "Happiness 
after  marriage  is  like  the  soap  in  the  bath- 
tub; you  knew  it  was  there  when  you  got 
in." 

Man's  clothes  are  ugly,  but  the  styles 
change  gradually.  A  judge  on  the  bench 
may  try  a  case  lasting  two  weeks,  and  his 
hat  will  not  be  hopelessly  behind  the  times 
when  it  is  finished.  A  man  can  stoop  to 
pick  up  a  fallen  magazine  without  pausing 
to  remember  that  his  front  steels  are  not  so 
flexible  this  year  as  they  were  last. 

He  is  not  distressed  by  the  fear  that  some 
other  man  may  have  a  suit  just  like  his, 
or  that  the  neighbours  will  think  it  is  his 
last  year's  suit  dyed. 

We  women  fritter  ourselves  away  upon  a 


g>upenontp  of  jftem  195 


thousand  unnecessary  things.  We  waste 
our  creative  energies  and  our  inspired 
moments  upon  pursuits  so  ephemeral  that 
they  are  forgotten  to-morrow.  Our  day's 
work  counts  for  nothing  when  tested  by  the 
standards  of  eternity.  We  are  unjust, 
not  only  to  ourselves,  but  to  the  men  who 
strive  for  us,  for  civilisation  must  progress 
very  slowly  when  half  of  us  are  dragged 
by  pots  and  pans. 

A  house  is  a  material  fact,  but  a  home  is 
a  fine  spiritual  essence  which  may  pervade 
even  the  humblest  abode.  If  love  means 
harmony,  why  not  try  a  little  of  it  in  the 
kitchen?  Better  a  perfect  salad  than  a 
poor  poem;  better  a  fine  picture  than  an 
immaculate  house. 


Ebe  H>ear  of  flDp  Ibeart 

A  SIGH    for    the    spring,    full    flowered, 
promised  spring, 

Laid  on  the  tender  earth,  and  those  dear  days 
When  apple  blossoms  gleamed  against  the 

blue! 

Ah,  how  the  world  of  joyous  robins  sang: 
"I  love  but  you,  Sweetheart,  I  love  but  you!" 

A  sigh  for  summer  fled.    In  warm,  sweet  air 
Her  thousand  singers  sped  on  shining  wing; 
And  all  the  inward  life  of  budding  grain 
Throbbed  with  a  thousand  pulses,  while  I 

cling 
To  you,  my  Sweet,  with  passion  near  to  pain. 

A  sigh  for  autumn  past.    The  garnered  fields 
Lie  desolate  to-day.     My  heart  is  chill 
As  with  a  sense  of  dread,  and  on  the  shore 
The  waves  beat  grey  and  cold,  and  seem  to  say : 
"No  more,  oh,  waiting  soul,  oh  nevermore!" 

A  sigh  for  winter  come.     No  singing  bird, 
Nor  harvest  field,  is  near  the  path  I  tread; 
An  empty  husk  is  all  I  have  to  keep. 
The  largess  of  my  giving  left  me  bare, 
And  I  ask  God  but  for  His  Lethe — sleep. 
196 


average  flDan 


TTHE  real  man  is  not  at  all  on  the  out- 
•••  skirts  of  civilisation.  He  is  very 
much  in  evidence  and  everybody  knows 
him.  He  has  faults  and  virtues,  and  some- 
times they  get  so  mixed  up  that  "you  can- 
not tell  one  from  t'  other.  '  ' 

He  is  erratic  and  often  queer.  He 
believes,  with  Emerson,  that  "with  con- 
sistency a  great  soul  has  nothing  to  do." 
And  he  is,  of  course,  "a  great  soul."  Logi- 
cal, is  n't  it? 

The  average  man  thinks  that  he  is  a 
born  genius  at  love-making.  Henders,  in 
The  Professor's  Love  Story,  states  it  thus  : 

"Effie,  ye  ken  there  are  some  men  ha'  a 
power  o'er  women.  .  .  .  They  're  what 
ye  might  call  'dead  shots.'  Ye  canna 
deny,  Effie,  that  I  'm  one  o'  those  men!" 

Even  though  a  man  may  be  obliged  to 
197 


198        tEfjrea&g  of  (Step  an& 


admit,  in  strict  confidence  between  himself 
and  his  mirror,  that  he  is  not  at  all  hand- 
some, nevertheless  he  is  certain  that  he  has 
some  occult  influence  over  that  strange, 
mystifying,  and  altogether  unreasonable 
organ  —  a  woman's  heart. 

The  real  man  is  conceited.  Of  course 
you  are  not,  dear  masculine  reader,  for 
you  are  one  of  the  bright  particular 
exceptions,  but  all  of  your  men  friends  are 
conceited  —  are  n't  they? 

And  then  he  makes  fun  of  his  women 
folks  because  they  spend  so  much  time  in 
front  of  the  mirror  in  arranging  hats  and 
veils.  But  when  a  high  wind  comes  up 
and  disarranges  coiffures  and  chapeaux 
alike,  he  takes  "my  ladye  fair"  into  some 
obscure  corner,  and  saying,  "Pardon  me, 
but  your  hat  is  n't  quite  straight,  "  he 
will  deftly  restore  that  piece  of  millinery 
to  its  pristine  position.  That  's  nice  of 
him,  is  n't  it?  He  does  very  nice  things 
quite  often,  this  real  man. 

He  says  women  are  fickle.  So  they  are, 
but  men  are  fickle  too,  and  will  forget  all 


gfaerage  iHan  199 


about  the  absent  sweetheart  while  con- 
templating the  pretty  girls  in  the  street. 
For  while  "absence  makes  the  heart  grow 
fonder"  in  the  case  of  a  woman,  it  is 
presence  that  plays  the  mischief  with  a 
man,  and  Miss  Beauty  present  has  a  very 
unfair  advantage  over  Miss  Sweetheart 
absent. 

The  average  man  thinks  he  is  a  connois- 
seur of  feminine  attractiveness.  He  thinks 
he  has  tact,  too,  but  there  never  was  a  man 
who  was  blessed  with  much  of  this  valuable 
commodity.  Still,  as  that  is  a  favourite 
delusion  with  so  large  a  majority  of  the 
human  race,  the  conceit  of  the  ordinary 
masculine  individual  ought  not  to  be 
censured  too  strongly. 

The  real  man  is  quite  an  expert  at  flat- 
tery. Every  girl  he  meets,  if  she  is  at  all 
attractive,  is  considered  the  most  charming 
lady  that  he  ever  knew.  He  is  sure  she 
is  n't  prudish  enough  to  refuse  him  a  kiss, 
and  if  she  is,  she  wins  not  only  his  admira- 
tion, but  that  which  is  vastly  better  —  his 
respect. 


200        ^fjreati*  of  <§rep  an& 


If  she  hates  to  be  considered  a  prude 
and  gives  him  the  kiss,  he  is  very  sweet 
and  appreciative  at  the  time,  but  later  on 
he  confides  to  his  chum  that  she  is  a  silly 
sort  of  a  girl,  without  a  great  deal  of  self- 
respect  ! 

There  are  two  things  that  the  average 
man  likes  to  be  told.  One  is  that  his  taste 
in  dress  is  exceptional;  the  other  that  he 
is  a  deep  student  of  human  nature  and 
knows  the  world  thoroughly.  This  re- 
mark will  make  him  your  lifelong  friend. 

Again,  the  real  man  will  put  on  more 
agony  when  he  is  in  love  than  is  needed 
for  a  first-class  tragedy.  But  there  's  no 
denying  that  most  women  like  that  sort  of 
thing,  you,  dear  dainty  feminine  reader, 
being  almost  the  only  exception  to  this  rule. 

But,  resuming  the  special  line  of  thought, 
man  firmly  believes  that  woman  cannot 
sharpen  a  pencil,  select  a  necktie,  throw  a 
stone,  drive  a  nail,  or  kill  a  mouse,  and  it  is 
very  certain  that  she  cannot  cook  a  beef- 
steak in  the  finished  style  of  which  his 
lordship  is  capable. 


gberase  jftem  201 


Yes,  man  has  his  faults  as  well  as  woman. 
There  is  a  vast  room  for  improvement  on 
both  sides,  but  as  long  as  this  old  earth 
of  ours  turns  through  shadow  and  sunlight, 
through  sorrow  and  happiness,  men  and 
women  will  forgive  and  try  to  forget,  and 
will  cling  to,  and  love  each  other. 


Gfoe  Booh  of  Xov>e 

I  DREAMT  I  saw  an  angel  in  the  night, 
And  she  held  forth  Love's  book,  limned 
o'er  with  gold, 

That  I  might  read  of  days  of  chivalry 
And  how  men's  hearts  were  wont  to  thrill  of 
old. 

Half  wondering,  I  turned  the  musty  leaves, 
For  Love's  book  counts  out  centuries  as  years, 
And  here  and  there  a  page  shone  out  un- 

dimmed, 
And  here  and  there  a  page  was  blurred  with 

tears. 

I  read  of  Grief,  Doubt,  Silence  unexplained — 
Of    many-featured    Wrong,     Distrust,     and 

Blame, 

Renunciation — bitterest  of  all — 
And  yet  I  wandered  not  beyond  Love's  name. 

At  last  I  cried  to  her  who  held  the  book, 
So  fair  and  calm  she  stood,  I  see  her  yet ; 
"Why  write  these  things  within  this  book  of 

Love? 
Why  may  we  not  pass  onward  and  forget?" 

202 


of  Ho  be  203 


Her  voice  was  tender  when  she  answered  me: 
"  Half  child,  half  woman,  earthy  as  thou  art, 
How  should'st  thou  dream  that  Love  is  never 

Love 
Unless  these  things  beat  vainly  on  the  heart?" 


Ifceal  flDan 


TJE  is  n't  nearly  so  scarce  as  one  might 
•*•  *•  think,  but  happy  is  the  woman  who 
finds  him,  for  he  is  often  a  bit  out  of  the 
beaten  paths,  sometimes  in  the  very 
suburbs  of  our  modern  civilisation.  He 
is,  however,  coming  to  the  front  rather 
slowly,  to  be  sure,  but  nevertheless  he  is 
coming. 

He  would  n't  do  for  the  hero  of  a  dime 
novel  —  he  is  n't  melancholy  in  his  mien, 
nor  Byronic  in  his  morals.  It  is  a  frank, 
honest,  manly  face  that  looks  into  the 
other  end  of  our  observation  telescope  when 
we  sweep  the  horizon  to  find  something 
higher  and  better  than  the  rank  and  file  of 
humanity. 

He  is  a  gentleman,  invariably  courteous 
and  refined.  He  is  careful  in  his  attire, 

but  not  foppish.     He  is  chivalrous  in  his 
204 


3beal  j&an  205 


attitude  toward  woman,  and  as  politely 
kind  to  the  wrinkled  old  woman  who 
scrubs  his  office  floor  as  to  the  aristocratic 
belle  who  bows  to  him  from  her  carriage. 

He  is  scrupulously  honest  in  all  his 
dealings  with  his  fellow  men,  and  meanness 
of  any  sort  is  utterly  beneath  him.  He  has 
a  happy  way  of  seeing  the  humorous  side 
of  life,  and  he  is  an  exceedingly  pleasant 
companion. 

When  the  love  light  shines  in  his  eyes, 
kindled  at  the  only  fire  where  it  may  be 
lighted,  he  has  nothing  in  his  past  of  which 
he  need  be  ashamed.  He  stands  beside 
her  and  pleads  earnestly  and  manfully 
for  the  treasure  he  seeks.  Slowly  he  turns 
the  pages  of  his  life  before  her,  for  there  is 
not  one  which  can  call  a  blush  to  his  cheek, 
or  to  hers. 

Truth,  purity,  honesty,  chivalry,  the 
highest  manliness  —  all  these  are  written 
therein,  and  she  gladly  accepts  the  clean 
heart  which  is  offered  for  her  keeping. 

Her  life  is  now  another  open  book.  To 
him  her  nature  seems  like  a  harp  of  a 


206         Cfrreafog  of  <&rep  an& 


thousand  strings,  and  every  note,  though  it 
may  not  be  strong  and  high,  is  truth  itself, 
and  most  refined  in  tone. 

So  they  join  hands,  these  two:  the 
sweetheart  becomes  the  wife;  the  lover 
is  the  husband. 

He  is  still  chivalrous  to  every  woman, 
but  to  his  wife  he  pays  the  gentler  defer- 
ence which  was  the  sweetheart's  due.  He 
loves  her,  and  is  not  ashamed  to  show  it. 
He  brings  her  flowers  and  books,  just  as 
he  used  to  do  when  he  was  teaching  her  to 
love  him.  He  is  broad-minded,  and  far- 
seeing  —  he  believes  in  "a  white  life  for 
two."  He  knows  his  wife  has  the  same 
right  to  demand  purity  in  thought,  word, 
and  deed  from  him,  as  he  has  to  ask 
absolute  stainlessness  from  her.  That  is 
why  he  has  kept  clean  the  pages  of  his  life 
—  why  he  keeps  the  record  unsullied  as  the 
years  go  by. 

He  is  tender  in  his  feelings;  if  he  goes 
home  and  finds  his  wife  in  tears,  he  does  n't 
tell  her  angrily  to  "brace  up,  "  or  say,  "this 
is  a  pretty  welcome  for  a  man!"  He 


Sfceal  4flan  207 


does  n't  slam  the  door  and  whistle  as  if 
nothing  was  the  matter.  But  he  takes  her 
in  his  comforting  arms  and  speaks  soothing 
words.  If  his  comrades  speak  lightly  of 
his  devotion,  he  simply  thinks  out  other 
blessings  for  the  little  woman  who  presides 
at  his  fireside. 

His  wife  is  inexpressibly  dear  to  him,  and 
every  day  he  shows  this,  and  takes  pains, 
also,  to  tell  her  so.  He  admires  her  pretty 
gowns,  and  is  glad  to  speak  appreciatively 
of  the  becoming  things  she  wears.  He 
knows  instinctively  that  it  is  the  thought- 
fulness  and  the  little  tenderness  which 
make  a  woman's  happiness,  and  he  tries 
to  make  her  realise  that  his  love  for  her 
grew  brighter,  instead  of  fading,  when  the 
sweetheart  blossomed  into  the  wife.  For 
every  woman,  old,  wrinkled,  and  grey,  or 
young  and  charming,  likes  to  be  loved. 

The  ideal  man  will  do  his  utmost  to 
make  his  wife  realise  that  his  devotion 
intensifies  as  the  years  go  by. 

What  greater  thing  is  there  for  two  hu- 
man souls  than  to  feel  that  they  are  joined 


208         tEfjreafc*  of  <§rep  an&  <§olt> 


for  life  —  to  strengthen  each  other  in  all 
labour,  to  rest  upon  each  other  in  all  sor- 
row, to  minister  to  each  other  in  all  pain,  to 
be  one  with  each  other  in  silent  unspeak- 
able memories  at  the  moment  of  the  last 
parting? 

God  bless  the  ideal  man  and  hasten  his 
coming  in  greater  numbers. 


(BooMRigbt,  Sweetheart 

GOOD-NIGHT,  Sweetheart;  the  winged 
hours  have  flown; 

I  have  forgotten  all  the  world  but  thee. 
Across  the  moon-lit  deep,  where  stars  have 

shone, 
The  surge  sounds  softly  from  the  sleeping  sea. 

Thy  heart  at  last  hath  opened  to  Love's  key; 
Remembered  Aprils,   glorious  blooms  have 

sown, 
And  now  there  comes  the  questing  honey 

bee. 
Good-night,   Sweetheart;  the  winged  hours 

have  flown. 

• 

My  singing  soul  makes  music  in  thine  own, 
Thy  hand  upon  my  harp  makes  melody; 
So  close  the  theme  and  harmony  have  grown 
I  have  forsaken  all  the  world  for  thee. 

Before  thy  whiteness  do  I  bend  the  knee; 
Thou  art  a  queen  upon  a  stainless  throne, 
Like  Dian  making  royal  jubilee, 

Across  the  vaulted  dark  where  stars  are  blown. 
209 


2io        tEljrea&s  of  <@rep  anb 


Within  my  heart  thy  face  shines  out  alone, 
Ah,  dearest!     Say  for  once  thou  lovest  me! 
A  whisper,  even,  like  the  undertone 
The  surge  sings  slowly  from  the  rhythmic  sea. 

Thy  downcast  eyes  make  answer  to  my  plea  ; 
A  crimson  mantle  o'er  thy  cheek  is  thrown 
Assurance  more  than  this,  there  need  not  be, 
For  thus,  within  the  silence,  love  is  known. 
Good-night,  Sweetheart. 


flfceal  HCloman 

THE  trend  of  modern  thought  in  art  and 
literature  is  toward  the  real,  but 
fortunately  the  cherishing  of  the  ideal  has 
not  vanished. 

All  of  us,  though  we  may  profess  to  be 
realists,  are  at  heart  idealists,  for  every 
woman  in  the  innermost  sanctuary  of  her 
thoughts  cherishes  an  ideal  man.  And 
every  man,  practical  and  commonplace 
though  he  be,  has  before  him  in  his  quiet 
moments  a  living  picture  of  grace  and 
beauty,  which,  consciously  or  not,  is  his 
ideal  woman. 

Every  man  instinctively  admires  a 
beautiful  woman.  But  when  he  seeks  a 
wife,  he  demands  other  qualities  besides 
that  wonderful  one  which  is,  as  the  proverb 
tells  us,  "only  skin  deep. " 

If  men  were  not  such  strangely  inconsis- 


211 


212        tEfjreafca  of  <@rep  anb 


tent  beings,  the  world  would  lose  half  its 
charm.  Each  sex  rails  at  the  other  for  its 
inconsistency,  when  the  real  truth  is  that 
nowhere  exists  much  of  that  beautiful 
quality  which  is  aptly  termed  a  "jewel." 

But  humanity  must  learn  with  Emerson 
to  seek  other  things  than  consistency,  and 
to  look  upon  the  lightning  play  of  thought 
and  feeling  as  an  index  of  mental  and  moral 
growth. 

For  those  who  possess  the  happy  faculty 
of  "making  the  best  of  things,"  men  are 
really  the  most  amusing  people  in  existence. 
To  hear  a  man  dilate  upon  the  virtues  and 
accomplishments  of  the  ideal  woman  he 
would  make  his  wife  is  a  most  interesting 
diversion,  besides  being  a  source  of  what 
may  be  called  decorative  instruction. 

She  must,  first  of  all,  be  beautiful.  No 
man,  even  in  his  wildest  moments,  ever 
dreamed  of  marrying  any  but  a  beautiful 
woman,  yet,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  when 
he  does  go  to  the  altar,  he  is  leading  there 
one  who  is  lovely  only  in  his  own  eyes. 

He  has  read  Swinburne  and  Tennyson 


Jfceal  in  oman  213 


and  is  very  sure  he  won't  have  anything 
but  "a  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
and  most  divinely  fair.  "  Then,  of  course, 
there  is  the  "classic  profile,"  the  "deep, 
unfathomable  eyes,"  the  "lily-white  skin," 
and  "hair  like  the  raven's  wing,"  not  to 
mention  the  "swan-like  neck"  and  "taper- 
ing, shapely  fingers." 

Mr.  Ideal  is  really  a  man  of  refined  taste, 
and  the  women  who  hear  this  impassioned 
outburst  are  supremely  conscious  of  their 
own  imperfections. 

But  beauty  is  not  the  only  demand  of  this 
fastidious  gentleman  ;  the  fortunate  woman 
whom  he  deigns  to  honour  must  be  a 
paragon  of  sweetness  and  docility.  No 
"woman's  rights"  or  "suffrage  rant"  for 
him,  and  none  of  those  high-stepping 
professional  women  need  apply  either  — 
oh,  no!  And  then  all  of  her  interests  must 
be  his,  for  of  all  things  on  earth,  he  "does 
despise  a  woman  with  a  hobby!"  None 
of  these  "broad-minded  women"  were  ever 
intended  for  Mr.  Ideal.  He  is  very  certain 
of  that,  because  away  down  in  his  secret 


214        tKiiteab*  of  (Step  anfc 


heart  he  was  sure  he  had  found  the  right 
woman  once,  but  when  he  did,  he  learned 
also  that  she  was  somewhat  particular 
about  the  man  she  wanted  to  marry,  and 
the  applicant  then  present  did  not  fill  the 
bill  !  He  is  therefore  very  sure  that  '  '  a  man 
does  not  want  an  intellectual  instructor: 
he  wants  a  wife." 

Just  like  the  most  of  them  after  all, 
is  n't  he? 

The  year  goes  round  and  Mr.  Ideal 
goes  away  on  a  summer  vacation.  There 
are  some  pleasant  people  in  the  little  town 
to  which  he  goes,  and  there  is  a  girl  in  the 
party  with  her  mother  and  brother.  Mr. 
Ideal  looks  her  over  disapprovingly.  She 
is  n't  pretty  —  no,  she  is  n't  even  good- 
looking.  Her  hair  is  almost  red,  her  eyes 
are  a  pale  blue,  and  she  wears  glasses.  Her 
nose  is  n't  even  straight,  and  it  turns  up  too 
much  besides.  Her  skin  is  covered  with 
tiny  golden-brown  blotches.  "Freckles!" 
exclaims  Mr.  Ideal,  sotto  wee.  Her 
mouth  is  n't  bad,  the  lips  are  red  and  full 
and  her  teeth  are  white  and  even.  She 


3beal  8Homan  215 


wears  a  blue  boating  suit  with  an  Eton 
jacket.  "So  common!"  and  Mr.  Ideal 
goes  away  from  his  secluded  point  of 
observation. 

A  merry  laugh  reaches  his  ear,  and  he 
turns  around.  The  tall  brother  is  chasing 
her  through  the  bushes,  and  she  waves  a 
letter  tantalisingly  at  him  as  she  goes,  and 
finally  bounds  over  a  low  fence  and  runs 
across  the  field,  with  her  big  brother  in 
close  pursuit.  "Hoydenish!"  and  Mr. 
Ideal  hums  softly  to  himself  and  goes  off  to 
find  Smith.  Smith  is  a  good  fellow  and 
asks  Mr.  Ideal  to  go  fishing.  They  go,  but 
don't  have  a  bite,  and  come  home  rather 
cross.  Does  Smith  know  the  little  red- 
headed girl  who  was  on  the  piazza,  this 
morning? 

Yes,  he  has  met  her.  She  has  been 
here  about  a  week.  "Rather  nice,  but  not 
especially  attractive,  you  know."  No,  she 
is  n't,  but  he  will  introduce  Mr.  Ideal. 

Days  pass,  and  Mr.  Ideal  and  Miss 
Practical  are  much  together.  He  finds  her 
the  jolliest  girl  he  ever  knew.  She  is  an 


2i6        threat)  g  of  <0ret>  anb 


enthusiastic  advocate  of  "woman"  in 
every  available  sphere. 

She  herself  is  going  to  be  a  trained  nurse 
after  she  learns  to  "keep  house."  "For 
you  know  that  every  woman  should  be  a 
good  housekeeper,"  she  says  demurely. 

He  doesn't  exactly  like  "that  trained 
nurse  business,  "  but  he  admits  to  himself 
that,  if  he  were  ill,  he  should  like  to  have 
Miss  Practical  smooth  his  pillow  and  take 
care  of  him. 

And  so  the  time  goes  on,  and  he  is  often 
the  companion  of  the  girl.  At  times,  she 
fairly  scintillates  with  merriment,  but  she 
is  so  dignified,  and  so  womanly  —  so  very 
careful  to  keep  him  at  his  proper  distance  — 
that,  well,  "she  is  a  type!" 

In  due  course  of  time,  he  plans  to  return 
to  the  city,  and  to  the  theatres  and  parties 
he  used  to  find  so  pleasant.  All  his  friends 
are  there.  No,  Miss  Practical  is  not  in  the 
city  ;  she  is  right  here.  Like  a  flash  a  reve- 
lation comes  over  him,  and  he  paces  the 
veranda  angrily.  Well,  there  's  only  one 
thing  to  be  done  —  he  must  tell  her  about  it. 


Che  iilical  liBcman  217 

Perhaps — and  he  sees  a  flash  of  blue 
through  the  shrubbery,  which  he  seeks 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  an  object 
in  view. 

His  circle  of  friends  are  very  much  sur- 
prised when  he  introduces  Mrs.  Ideal,  for 
she  is  surely  different  from  the  ideal  woman 
about  whom  they  have  heard  so  much. 
They  naturally  think  he  is  inconsistent, 
but  he  is  n't,  for  some  subtle  alchemy  has 
transfigured  the  homely  little  girl  into  the 
dearest,  best,  and  altogether  most  beauti- 
ful woman  Mr.  Ideal  has  ever  seen. 

She  is  domestic  in  her  tastes  now,  and 
has  abandoned  the  professional  nurse  idea. 
She  knows  a  great  deal  about  Greek  and 
Latin,  and  still  more  about  Shakespeare 
and  Browning  and  other  authors. 

But  she  neglects  neither  her  books  nor 
her  housekeeping,  and  her  husband  spends 
his  evenings  at  home,  not  because  Mrs. 
Ideal  would  cry  and  make  a  fuss  if  he 
did  n't,  but  because  his  heart  is  in  her 
keeping,  and  because  his  own  fireside,  with 


2i8        SEbreaba  of 


its  sweet-faced  guardian  angel,  is  to  him 
the  most  beautiful  place  on  earth,  and  he 
has  sense  enough  to  appreciate  what  a 
noble  wife  is  to  him. 

The  plain  truth  is,  when  "any  whatso- 
ever "  Mr.  Ideal  loves  a  woman,  he 
immediately  finds  her  perfect,  and  trans- 
fers to  her  the  attributes  which  only  exist 
in  his  imagination.  His  heart  and  happi- 
ness are  there  —  not  with  the  creatures  of 
his  dreams,  but  the  warm,  living,  loving 
human  being  beside  him,  and  to  him, 
henceforth,  the  ideal  is  the  real. 

For  "the  ideal  woman  is  as  gentle  as 
she  is  strong."  She  wins  her  way  among 
her  friends  and  fellow  human  beings,  even 
though  they  may  be  strangers,  by  doing 
many  a  kindness  which  the  most  of  us  are 
too  apt  to  overlook  or  ignore. 

No  heights  of  thought  or  feeling  are 
beyond  her  eager  reach,  and  no  human 
creature  has  sunk  too  low  for  her  sym- 
pathy and  her  helping  hand.  Even  the 
forlorn  and  friendless  dog  in  the  alley 


Sfceal  Ionian  219 


looks  instinctively  into  her  face  for 
help. 

She  is  in  every  man's  thoughts  and 
always  will  be,  as  she  always  has  been  — 
the  ideal  who  shall  lead  him  step  by  step, 
and  star  by  star,  to  the  heights  which  he 
cannot  reach  alone. 

Ruskin  says  :  "No  man  ever  lived  a  right 
life  who  has  not  been  chastened  by  a 
woman's  love,  strengthened  by  her  courage 
and  guided  by  her  discretion.  " 

The  steady  flow  of  the  twentieth-century 
progress  has  not  swept  away  woman's 
influence,  nor  has  it  crushed  out  her 
womanliness.  She  lives  in  the  hearts  of 
men,  a  queen  as  royal  as  in  the  days  of 
chivalry,  and  men  shall  do  and  dare  for 
her  dear  sake  as  long  as  time  shall  last. 

The  sweet,  lovable,  loyal  woman  of  the 
past  is  not  lost;  she  is  only  intensified  in 
the  brave  wif  ehood  and  motherhood  of  our 
own  times.  The  modern  ideal,  like  that 
of  olden  times,  is  and  ever  will  be,  above 
all  things  —  womanly. 


She  10  not  jfair 

SHE  is  not  fair  to  other  eyes — 
No  poet's  dream  is  she, 
Nor  artist's  inspiration,  yet 
I  would  not  have  her  be. 
She  wanders  not  through  princely  halls, 

A  crown  upon  her  hair; 
Her  heart  awaits  a  single  king 
Because  she  is  not  fair. 


Dear  lips,  your  half-shy  tenderness 

Seems  far  too  much  to  win! 
Yet,  has  your  heart  a  tiny  door 

Where  I  may  peep  within? 
That  voiceless  chamber,  dim  and  sweet, 

I  pray  may  be  my  own. 
Dear  little  Love,  may  I  come  in 

And  make  you  mine  alone? 

She  is  not  fair  to  other  eyes — 

I  would  not  have  it  so ; 
She  needs  no  further  charm  or  grace 

Or  aught  wealth  may  bestow; 
220 


3*  not  Jfair  221 


For  when  the  love  light  shines  and  makes 

Her  dear  face  glorified  — 
Ah  Sweetheart  !  queens  may  come  and  go 

And  all  the  world  beside. 


IRfloman 


T^HE  world  has  fought  step  by  step  the 

*      elevation  of  woman  from  inferiority 

to  equality,  but  at  last  she  is  being  recog- 

nised as  a  potent  factor  in  our  civilisation. 

The  most  marked  change  which  has 
been  made  in  woman's  position  during  the 
last  half  century  or  more  has  been  effected 
by  higher  education,  and  since  the  uni- 
versities have  thrown  open  their  doors  to 
her,  she  has  been  allowed,  in  many  cases, 
to  take  the  same  courses  that  her  brother 
does. 

Still,  the  way  has  not  been  entirely 
smooth  for  educated  and  literary  women, 
for  the  public  press  has  too  often  frowned 
upon  their  efforts  to  obtain  anything  like 
equal  recognition  for  equal  ability.  The 
literary  woman  has,  for  years,  been  the 
target  of  criticism,  and  if  we  are  to  believe 


J?tn-fce-$i>tcclc  VHoman         223 


her  critics,  she  has  been  entirely  shunned 
by  the  gentlemen  of  her  acquaintance; 
but  the  fact  that  so  many  of  them  are 
wives  and  mothers,  and,  moreover,  good 
wives  and  mothers,  proves  conclusively 
that  these  statements  are  not  trustworthy. 

It  is  true  that  some  prefer  the  society 
of  women  who  know  just  enough  to  appre- 
ciate their  compliments  —  women  who  de- 
precate their  "strong-minded"  sisters,  and 
are  ready  to  agree  implicitly  with  every 
statement  that  the  lords  of  creation  may 
make;  but  this  readiness  is  due  to  sheer 
inability  to  produce  a  thought  of  their  own. 

It  is  true  that  some  men  are  afraid  of 
educated  women,  but  a  man  who  is  afraid 
of  a  woman  because  she  knows  something 
is  not  the  kind  of  a  man  she  wants  to 
marry.  He  is  not  the  kind  of  a  man  she 
would  choose  for  either  husband  or  friend  ; 
she  wants  an  intellectual  companion,  and 
the  chances  are  that  she  will  find  him,  or 
rather  that  he  will  find  her.  A  woman 
need  not  be  unwomanly  in  order  to  write 
books  that  will  help  the  world. 


224        lE&reaba  of  <@rep  anb 


She  may  be  a  good  housekeeper,  even 
if  she  does  write  for  the  magazines,  and 
the  husbands  of  literary  women  are  not, 
as  some  folks  would  have  us  believe, 
neglected  and  forlorn-looking  beings.  On 
the  contrary,  they  carry  brave  hearts  and 
cheerful  faces  with  them  always,  since 
their  strength  is  reinforced  by  the  quiet 
happiness  of  their  own  firesides. 

Thefin-de-siecle  woman  is  literary  in  one 
sense,  if  not  in  another,  for  if  she  may  not 
wield  her  pen,  she  can  keep  in  touch  with 
the  leading  thinkers  of  the  day,  and  she 
will  prove  as  pleasant  a  companion  during 
the  long  winter  evenings  as  the  woman 
whose  husband  chose  her  for  beauty  and 
taste  in  dress. 

The  literary  woman  is  not  slipshod  in 
her  apparel,  and  she  may,  if  she  chooses, 
be  a  society  and  club  woman  as  well. 
Surely  there  is  nothing  in  literary  culture 
which  shall  prevent  neatness  and  propriety 
in  dress  as  well  as  in  conduct. 

The  devoted  admirer  of  Browning  is  not 
liable  to  quote  him  in  a  promiscuous  com- 


Jfin-fce-^tccle  Sloman         225 


pany  and  though  a  lady  may  be  familiar 
with  Shakespeare,  it  does  not  follow  that 
she  will  discuss  Hamlet  in  social  gatherings. 

If  she  reads  Greek  as  readily  as  she  does 
her  mother  tongue,  you  may  rest  assured 
she  will  not  mention  Homer  in  ordinary 
conversation,  for  a  cultivated  woman 
readily  recognises  the  fitness  of  things,  and 
accords  a  due  deference  to  the  tastes  of 
others.  She  has  her  club  and  her  friends, 
as  do  the  gentlemen  of  her  acquaintance, 
but  her  children  are  not  neglected  irom  the 
fact  that  she  sometimes  thinks  of  other 
things.  She  is  a  helpmeet  to  her  husband, 
and  not  a  plaything,  or  a  slave.  If  duty 
calls  her  to  the  kitchen,  she  goes  cheer- 
fully, and,  moreover,  the  cook  will  not 
dread  to  see  her  coming  ;  or  if  that  import- 
ant person  be  absent,  the  table  will  be 
supplied  with  just  as  good  bread,  and 
just  as  delicate  pastry,  as  if  the  lady  of 
the  house  did  not  understand  the  chemicals 
of  their  composition. 

If  trouble  comes,  she  bears  it  bravely,  for 
the  cultured  woman  has  a  philosophy  which 


226         (Efircabs  of  <&rep  anU 


is  equal  to  any  emergency,  and  she  does 
the  best  she  can  on  all  occasions. 

If  her  husband  leaves  her  penniless,  she 
will,  if  possible,  clothe  her  children  with  her 
pen,  but  if  her  literary  wares  are  a  drug 
on  the  market,  she  will  turn  bravely  to 
other  fields,  and  find  her  daily  bread  made 
sweet  by  thankfulness.  She  does  not 
hesitate  to  hold  out  her  hands  to  help  a 
fellow-creature,  either  man  or  woman,  for 
she  is  in  all  things  womanly — a  wife  to  her 
husband  and  a  mother  to  her  children  in 
the  truest  sense  of  the  words. 

Her  knowledge  of  the  classics  does  not 
interfere  with  the  making  of  dainty  drap- 
eries for  her  home,  and  though  she  may  be 
appointed  to  read  a  paper  before  her  club 
on  some  scholarly  theme,  she  will  listen 
just  as  patiently  to  tales  of  trouble  from 
childish  lips,  and  will  tie  up  little  cut 
fingers  just  as  sympathetically  as  her 
neighbour  who  folds  her  arms  and  who 
broadly  hints  that  "wimmen's  spear  is 
to  hum!" 

Whether  the  literary  woman  be  robed 


Jfm-&e-£>iecle  KSoman         227 


in  silk  and  sealskin,  or  whether  she  rejoices 
in  the  possession  of  only  one  best  gown,  she 
may,  nevertheless,  be  contented  and  happy. 

Whether  she  lives  in  a  modest  cottage, 
or  in  a  fashionable  home,  she  may  be  the 
same  sweet  woman,  with  cheerful  face  and 
pleasant  voice  —  with  a  broad  human  sym- 
pathy which  makes  her  whole  life  glad. 

Be  she  princess,  or  Cinderella,  she  may 
be  still  her  husband's  confidant  and 
cherished  friend,  to  whom  he  may  confide 
his  business  troubles  and  perplexities, 
certain  always  of  her  tender  consolation 
and  ready  sympathy.  She  may  be  quick 
and  versatile,  doing  well  whatever  she 
does  at  all,  for  her  creed  declares  that 
"whatever  is  honest  is  honourable." 

She  glories  in  her  womanhood  and  has 
no  sympathy  with  anything  which  tends 
to  degrade  it. 

All  hail  to  the  woman  of  the  twentieth 
century;  let  fin  de  siecle  stand  for  all  that 
is  best  and  noblest  in  womanhood:  for 
liberty,  equality,  and  fraternity;  for  right, 
truth,  and  justice. 


228         vEfireabs  of  <0rcp  anil 


All  hail  the  widespread  movement  for 
the  higher  education  of  woman,  for  in 
intellectual  development  is  the  future  of 
posterity,  in  study  is  happiness,  through 
the  open  door  of  the  college  is  the  key  cf  a 
truer  womanhood,  a  broader  humanity,  and 
a  brighter  hope.  In  education  along  the 
lines  of  the  broadest  and  wisest  culture  is 
to  be  found  the  emancipation  of  the  race. 


Gbe  flDoon 

THERE  's  a  wondrous  land  of  misty  gold 
Beyond  the  sunset's  bars. 
There  's  a  silver  boat  on  a  sea  of  blue, 
And  the  tips  of  its  waves  are  stars. 

And  idly  rocking  to  and  fro, 

Her  cloud  robes  floating  by, 
There  's  a  maiden  fair,  with  sunny  hair, 

The  queen  of  the  dreamy  sky. 


1ber  Son's  TOife 

venerable  mother-in-law  joke  ap- 
pears  in  the  comic  papers  with 
astonishing  regularity.  For  a  time,  per- 
haps, it  may  seem  to  be  lost  in  the  mists 
of  oblivion,  but  even  while  one  is  rejoicing 
at  its  absence  it  returns  to  claim  its  original 
position  at  the  head  of  the  procession. 

There  are  two  sides  to  everything, 
even  to  an  old  joke,  and  the  artist  always 
pictures  the  man's  dismay  when  his  wife's 
mother  comes  for  a  visit.  Nobody  ever 
sees  a  drawing  of  a  woman's  mother-in- 
law,  and  yet,  the  bitterness  and  sadness 
lie  mainly  there — between  the  mother  and 
the  woman  his  son  has  chosen  for  his 
wife. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  believe  that  the  aver- 
age man  is  a  gentleman,  and  his  inborn 

respect  for  his  own  mother,  if  nothing  else, 
230 


Milt  231 


will  usually  compel  an  outward  show  of 
politeness  to  every  woman,  even  though 
she  may  be  a  constant  source  of  irritation. 
Grey  hair  has  its  own  claims  upon  a  young 
man's  deference,  and,  in  the  business  world, 
he  is  obliged  to  learn  to  hold  his  tongue, 
hide  his  temper,  and  "assume  a  virtue 
though  he  has  it  not.  " 

The  mother's  welcome  from  her  daugh- 
ter's husband  depends  much  upon  herself. 
Her  long  years  of  marriage  have  been  in 
vain  if  they  have  not  taught  her  to  watch 
a  man's  moods  and  tenses;  when  to  speak 
and  when  to  be  silent,  and  how  to  avoid 
useless  discussion  of  subjects  on  which 
there  is  a  pronounced  difference  of  opinion. 
Leaving  out  the  personal  equation,  the 
older  and  more  experienced  woman  is 
better  fitted  to  get  along  peaceably  with  a 
man  than  the  young  girl  who  has  her 
wisdom  yet  to  acquire. 

Moreover,  it  is  to  the  daughter's  interest 
to  cement  a  friendship  between  her  mother 
and  her  husband,  and  so  she  stands  as  a 
shield  between  the  two  she  holds  dearest, 


232        {Bureaus  of  <&rep  anti 


to  exercise  whatever  tact  she  may  possess 
toward  an  harmonious  end. 

"A  son  's  a  son  till  he  gets  him  a  wife, 
But  a  daughter  's  a  daughter  all  the  days  of 
her  life." 

Thus  the  old  saying  runs,  and  there  is  a 
measure  of  truth  in  it,  more  's  the  pity. 
Marriage  and  a  home  of  her  own  interfere 
but  little  with  a  daughter's  devotion  to 
her  mother,  even  though  the  daily  com- 
panionship be  materially  lessened.  The 
feeling  is  there  and  remains  unchanged, 
unless  it  grows  stronger  through  the  new 
interests  on  both  sides. 

If  a  man  has  won  his  wife  in  spite  of  her 
mother's  opposition,  he  can  well  afford  to 
be  gracious  and  forget  the  ancient  grudge. 
It  is  his  part,  too,  to  prove  to  the  mother 
how  far  she  was  mistaken,  by  making  the 
girl  who  trusted  him  the  happiest  wife  in 
the  world.  The  woman  who  sees  her 
daughter  happy  will  have  little  against  her 
son-in-law,  except  that  primitive,  tribal 
instinct  which  survives  in  most  of  us,  and 


Set  gxm'a  Milt  233 

jealously  guards  those  of  our  own  blood 
from  the  aggression  of  another  family  or 
individual. 

One  may  as  well  admit  that  a  good  hus- 
band is  a  very  scarce  article,  and  that  the 
mother's  anxiety  for  her  daughter  is  well- 
founded.  No  man  can  escape  the  sensa- 
tion of  being  forever  on  trial  in  the  eyes 
of  his  wife's  mother,  and  woe  to  him  if  he 
makes  a  mistake  or  falters  in  his  duty! 
Things  which  a  woman  would  gladly  con- 
done in  her  husband  are  unpardonable  sins 
in  the  man  who  has  married  her  daughter, 
and  taken  her  from  a  mother's  loving  care. 

A  good  husband  and  a  good  man  are  not 
necessarily  the  same  thing.  Many  a  scape- 
grace has  been  dearly  loved  by  his  wife,  and 
many  a  highly  respected  man  has  been 
secretly  despised  by  his  wife  and  children. 
When  the  prison  doors  open  to  discharge 
the  sinners  who  have  served  long  sentences, 
the  wives  of  those  who  have  been  good 
husbands  are  waiting  for  them  with  open 
arms.  The  others  have  long  since  taken 
advantage  of  the  divorce  laws. 


234        Qflbreabs:  of  <&rep  anfc 


Since  women  know  women  so  well, 
perhaps  it  is  only  natural  for  a  mother  to 
feel  that  no  girl  who  is  good  enough  for  her 
son  ever  has  been  born.  All  the  small 
deceits,  the  little  schemes  and  frailties, 
are  as  an  open  book  in  the  eyes  of  other 
women. 

"If  you  were  a  man,"  said  one  girl  to 
another,  "  and  knew  women  as  well  as  you 
do  now,  whom  would  you  marry?" 

The  other  girl  thought  for  a  moment,  and 
then  answered  unhesitatingly:  "I  'd  stay 
single." 

Women  are  always  suspicious  of  each 
other,  and  the  one  who  can  deceive  another 
woman  is  entitled  to  her  laurels  for  clever- 
ness. With  the  keen  insight  and  quick 
intuition  of  the  woman  on  either  side  of 
him,  when  these  women  are  violently 
opposed  to  each  other,  no  man  need  look 
for  peace. 

In  spite  of  their  discernment,  women  are 
sadly  deficient  in  analysis  when  it  comes  to 
a  question  of  self.  Neither  wife  nor 
mother  can  clearly  see  her  relation  to  the 


bait's  mil  t  235 


man  they  both  love.  Blinded  by  passion- 
ate devotion  and  eager  for  power,  both 
women  lose  sight  of  the  truth,  and  torment 
themselves  and  each  other  with  unfounded 
jealousy  and  distrust. 

In  no  sense  are  wife  and  mother  rivals, 
nor  can  they  ever  be  so.  Neither  could 
take  the  place  of  the  other  for  a  single 
instant,  and  the  wife  foolishly  guards  the 
point  where  there  is  no  danger,  for,  of  all 
the  women  in  the  world,  his  mother  and 
sisters  are  the  only  ones  who  could  never 
by  any  possibility  usurp  her  place. 

A  woman  need  only  ask  herself  if  she 
would  like  to  be  the  mother  of  her  hus- 
band —  to  exchange  the  love  which  she 
now  has  for  filial  affection  —  fora  tempor- 
ary clearness  of  her  troubled  skies.  The 
mother  need  only  ask  herself  if  she  would 
surrender  her  position  for  the  privilege  of 
being  her  son's  wife,  if  she  seeks  for  light 
OH  her  dark  path. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  this,  the  two  are  often 
open  and  acknowledged  rivals.  A  woman 
recently  wrote  to  the  "etiquette  depart- 


236        tEfjr^afcjs  of  tflrep  anto 


ment"  of  a  daily  paper  to  know  whether 
she  or  her  son's  fiancee  should  make  the 
first  call.  In  answering  the  question,  the 
head  of  the  department,  who,  by  the  way, 
has  something  of  a  reputation  for  good 
sense,  wrote  as  follows:  "It  is  your  place 
to  make  the  first  call,  and  you  have  my 
sympathy  in  your  difficult  task.  You 
must  be  brave,  for  you  are  going  to  look 
into  the  eyes  of  a  woman  whom  your  son 
loves  better  than  he  does  you!"  "Better 
than  he  does  you!"  That  is  where  all  the 
trouble  lies,  for  each  wishes  to  be  first  in  a 
relation  where  no  comparison  is  possible. 

When  an  American  yacht  first  won  the 
cup,  Queen  Victoria  was  watching  the 
race.  When  she  was  told  that  the  America 
was  in  the  lead,  she  asked  what  boat  was 
second.  "Your  Majesty,"  replied  the 
naval  officer  sadly,  "there  is  no  second!" 

So,  between  wife  and  mother  there  is  no 
second  place,  and  it  is  possible  for  each  to 
own  the  whole  of  the  loved  one's  heart, 
without  infringing  or  even  touching  upon 
the  rights  of  the  other. 


Milt  237 


Few  of  the  passengers  on  a  lake  steamer, 
during  a  trip  in  northern  waters  a  few 
years  since,  will  ever  forget  a  certain 
striking  group.  Mother  and  son,  and  the 
son's  fiancee,  were  off  for  a  week's  vacation. 
The  mother  was  tall  and  stately,  with 
snow-white  hair  and  a  hard  face  deeply 
seamed  with  wrinkles,  and  with  the  fire  of 
southern  countries  burning  in  her  faded 
blue  eyes.  The  son  was  merely  a  nice 
boy,  with  a  pleasant  face,  and  the  girl, 
though  not  pretty,  had  a  fresh  look  about 
her  which  was  very  attractive. 

She  wore  an  engagement  ring,  so  he  must 
have  cared  for  her,  but  otherwise  no  one 
would  have  suspected  it.  From  beginning 
to  end,  his  attention  was  centred  upon 
his  mother.  He  carried  his  mother's 
wraps,  but  the  girl  carried  her  own.  He 
talked  to  the  mother,  and  the  girl  could 
speak  or  not,  just  as  she  chose.  Never 
for  an  instant  were  the  two  alone  together. 
They  sat  on  the  deck  until  late  at  night, 
with  the  mother  between  them.  When 
they  changed,  the  son  took  his  own  chair 


238         tEfjreabs  of  <S«p  anb 


and  his  mother's,  while  the  girl  dragged 
hers  behind  them.  At  the  end  of  their 
table  in  the  cabin,  the  mother  sat  between 
them  at  the  head.  Once,  purely  by 
accident,  the  girl  slipped  into  the  nearest 
chair,  which  happened  to  be  the  mother's, 
and  the  deadly  silence  could  be  felt  even 
two  tables  away.  The  girl  turned  pale, 
then  the  son  said:  "You  '11  take  the  head 
of  the  table,  won't  you,  mother?" 

The  steely  tone  of  her  voice  could  be 
heard  by  every  one  as  she  said,  "No!" 

The  girl  ate  little,  and  soon  excused 
herself  to  go  to  her  stateroom,  but  the 
next  day  things  were  as  before,  and  the 
foolish  old  mother  had  her  place  next  to 
her  son. 

Discussion  was  rife  among  the  passen- 
gers, till  an  irreverent  youth  ended  it  by 
saying:  "Mamma  's  got  the  rocks;  that  's 
the  why  of  it!" 

Perhaps  it  was,  but  one  wonders  why  a 
man  should  slight  his  promised  wife  so 
publicly,  even  to  please  a  mother  with 
"rocks!" 


g>on'*  Mile  239 


To  the  mother  who  adores  her  son,  every 
girl  who  smiles  at  him  has  matrimonial 
designs.  When  he  falls  in  love,  it  is  because 
he  has  been  entrapped  —  she  seldom  con- 
siders him  as  being  the  aggressive  one  of  the 
two.  The  mother  of  the  girl  feels  the  same 
way,  and,  in  the  lower  circles,  there  is 
occasionally  an  illuminating  time  when 
the  two  mothers  meet. 

Each  is  made  aware  how  the  other's 
offspring  has  given  the  entrapped  one  no 
peace,  and  how  the  affair  has  been  the 
scandal  of  two  separate  neighbourhoods, 
more  eligible  partners  having  been  lost 
by  both  sides. 

In  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
there  is  no  classification  of  the  rights  of 
the  married,  but  the  clause  regarding  "life, 
liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness"  has 
been  held  pointedly  to  refer  to  the  matri- 
monial state.  If  the  mother  would  accord 
to  her  daughter-in-law  the  same  rights  she 
claimed  at  the  outset  of  her  own  married 
life,  the  relation  would  be  perceptibly 
smoother  in  many  instances. 


240        tEfjreafcs  of  (Ohrep  anb 


When  a  woman  marries,  she  has  a  right 
to  expect  the  love  of  her  husband,  material 
support,  a  home  of  her  own,  even  though 
it  be  only  two  tiny  rooms,  and  absolute 
freedom  from  outside  interference.  It  is 
her  life,  and  she  must  live  it  in  her  own  way, 
and  a  girl  of  spirit  will  live  it  in  her  own 
way,  without  taking  heed  of  the  conse- 
quences, if  she  is  pushed  too  far. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  mother  who  bore 
him  still  has  proprietary  rights.  She  may 
reasonably  claim  a  share  of  his  society,  a 
part  of  his  earnings,  if  she  needs  financial 
assistance,  and  his  interest  in  all  that 
nearly  concerns  her.  If  she  expects  to  be 
at  the  head  of  his  house,  with  the  wife  as 
a  sort  of  a  boarder,  she  need  not  be  sur- 
prised if  there  is  trouble. 

Marriage  brings  to  a  girl  certain  freedom, 
but  it  gives  her  no  superiority  to  her 
husband's  family.  A  chain  is  as  strong  as 
its  weakest  link,  and  the  members  of  a 
family  do  not  rise  above  the  general  level. 
Every  one  of  them  is  as  good  as  the  man 
she  has  married,  and  she  is  not  above  any 


don'*  Mitt  241 


of  them,  unless  her  own  personality  com- 
mands a  higher  position. 

She  treasonably  violates  the  confidence 
placed  in  her  if  she  makes  a  discreditable 
use  of  any  information  coming  to  her 
through  her  association  with  her  husband's 
family.  There  are  skeletons  in  every 
closet,  and  she  may  not  tell  even  her  own 
mother  of  what  she  has  seen  in  the  other 
house.  A  single  word  breathed  against 
her  husband's  family  to  an  outsider  stamps 
her  as  a  traitor,  who  deserves  a  traitor's 
punishment. 

The  girl  who  tells  her  most  intimate 
friend  that  the  mother  of  her  fiance  "is 
an  old  cat,  "  by  that  act  has  lowered  herself 
far  below  the  level  of  any  self-respecting 
cat.  Even  if  outward  and  visible  disgrace 
comes  to  the  family  of  her  husband,  she  is 
unworthy  if  she  does  not  hold  her  head 
high  and  let  the  world  see  her  loyalty. 

Marriage  gives  her  no  right  to  criticise 
any  member  of  her  husband's  family; 
their  faults  are  out  of  her  reach  except  by 
the  force  of  tactful  example.  Her  con- 


242        GHjreabg  of  (Step  anb  <J3olti 

cern  is  with  herself  and  him,  not  his  family, 
and  a  wise  girl,  at  the  beginning  of  her 
married  life,  will  draw  a  sharp  line  between 
her  affairs  and  those  of  others,  and  will 
stay  on  her  own  side  of  the  line. 

When  a  man  falls  in  love  with  a  thought- 
less butterfly,  his  womenfolk  may  be 
pardoned  if  they  stand  aghast  a  moment 
before  they  regain  their  self-command. 
In  a  way  it  is  like  a  guest  who  is  given  the 
freedom  of  the  house,  and  who,  when  her 
visit  is  over,  tells  her  friends  that  the 
parlour  carpet  was  turned,  and  the  stairs 
left  undusted. 

Another  household  is  intimately  opened 
to  the  woman  whom  the  son  has  married, 
and  the  members  of  it  can  make  no  defence. 
She  can  betray  them  if  she  chooses;  there 
is  nothing  to  shield  them  except  her  love 
for  her  husband,  and  too  often  that  is 
insufficient. 

A  girl  seldom  stops  to  think  what  she 
owes  to  her  husband's  mother.  Twenty- 
five  or  thirty  years  ago,  the  man  she  loves 
was  born.  Since  then  there  has  been  no 


'a  Milt  243 


time,  sleeping  or  waking,  when  he  has  not 
been  in  the  thoughts  of  the  mother  who  has 
sought  to  do  her  best  by  him.  She  gave 
her  life  wholly  to  the  demands  of  her  child, 
without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

She  has  sacrificed  herself  in  countless 
ways,  all  through  those  years,  in  order  that 
he  might  have  his  education,  his  pleasures, 
and  his  strong  body.  With  every  day  he 
has  grown  nearer  and  dearer  to  her;  every 
day  his  loss  would  have  been  that  much 
harder  to  bear. 

In  quiet  talks  in  the  twilight,  she  teaches 
him  to  be  gentle  and  considerate,  to  be 
courteous  to  every  woman  because  a 
woman  gave  him  life  ;  to  be  brave,  noble, 
and  tender;  to  be  strong  and  fine;  to 
choose  honour  with  a  crust,  rather  than 
shame  with  plenty. 

Then  comes  the  pretty  butterfly,  with 
whom  her  son  is  in  love.  Is  it  strange 
that  the  heart  of  the  mother  tightens 
with  sudden  pain? 

With  never  a  thought,  the  girl  takes  it 
all  as  her  due.  She  would  write  a  gracious 


244        tEfjreafca  of  dlrep  anfo 


note  of  thanks  to  the  friend  who  sent  her  a 
pretty  handkerchief,  but  for  the  woman 
who  is  the  means  of  satisfying  her  heart's 
desire  she  has  not  even  toleration.  All  the 
sweetness  and  beauty  of  his  adoring  love 
are  a  gift  to  her,  unwilling  too  often,  per- 
haps, but  a  gift  nevertheless,  from  his 
mother. 

Long  years  of  life  have  taught  the  mother 
what  it  may  mean  and  what,  alas,  it  does 
too  often  mean.  Memories  only  are  her 
portion  ;  she  need  expect  nothing  now.  He 
may  not  come  to  see  his  mother  for  an 
old  familiar  talk,  because  his  wife  either 
comes  with  him,  or  expects  him  to  be  at 
home.  He  has  no  time  for  his  mother's 
interests  or  his  mother's  friends;  there  is 
scant  welcome  in  his  home  for  her,  because 
between  them  has  come  an  alien  presence 
which  never  yields  or  softens. 

Strangely,  and  without  any  definite 
idea  of  the  change,  he  comes  to  see  his 
mother  as  she  is.  Once,  she  was  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  world,  and  her 
roughened  hands  were  lovely  because  they 


Mitt  245 


had  toiled  for  him.  Once,  her  counsel  was 
wise,  her  judgment  good,  and  the  gift  of 
feeling  which  her  motherhood  brought  her 
was  seen  as  generous  sympathy. 

Now,  by  comparison  with  a  bright,  well- 
dressed  wife,  he  sees  what  an  "old  frump" 
his  mother  is.  She  is  shabby  and  old- 
fashioned,  clinging  to  obsolete  forms  of 
speech,  hysterical  and  emotional.  When 
the  mists  of  love  have  cleared  from  her 
boy's  eyes,  she  may  just  as  well  give  up, 
because  there  is  no  return,  save  in  that 
other  mist  which  comes  too  late,  when 
mother  is  at  rest. 

The  wife  who  tries  to  keep  alive  her 
husband's  love  for  his  family,  not  only  in 
his  heart,  but  in  outward  observance  as 
well,  serves  her  own  interests  even  better 
than  theirs.  The  love  of  the  many  comes 
with  the  love  of  the  one,  and  just  as  truly 
as  he  loves  his  sweetheart  better  because 
of  his  mother  and  sisters,  he  may  love  them 
better  because  of  her. 

The  poor  heart-hungry  mother,  who 
stands  by  with  brimming  eyes,  fearful 


246        tCiireab*  of  <&rep  anfc  <&olb 

that  the  joy  of  her  life  may  be  taken  from 
her,  will  be  content  with  but  little  if  she 
may  but  keep  it  for  her  own.  It  is  only  a 
little  while  at  the  longest,  for  the  end  of 
the  journey  is  soon,  but  sunset  and  after- 
glow would  have  some  of  the  rapture  of 
dawn,  if  her  son's  wife  opened  the  door  of 
her  young  heart  and  said  with  true  sin- 
cerity and  wells  of  tenderness:  "Mother — 
Come!" 


E 


Sleep,  baby,  sleep, 
The  twilight  breezes  blow, 
The  flower  bells  are  ringing, 
The  birds  are  twittering  low, 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep, 
The  whippoorwill  is  calling, 
The  stars  are  twinkling  faintly, 
The  dew  is  softly  falling, 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep, 
Upon  your  pillow  lying, 
The  rushes  whisper  to  the  stream, 
The  summer  day  is  dying, 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 


247 


2>re00in8*Sacfc  Ibabit 


QOMEONE  has  said  that  a  dressing-sack 
^  is  only  a  Mother  Hubbard  with  a 
college  education.  Accepting  this  state- 
ment as  a  great  truth,  one  is  inclined  to 
wonder  whether  education  has  improved 
the  Mother  Hubbard,  since  another  clever 
person  has  characterised  a  college  as  "a 
place  where  pebbles  are  polished  and 
diamonds  are  dimmed!" 

The  bond  of  relationship  between  the 
two  is  not  at  first  apparent,  yet  there  are 
subtle  ties  of  kinship  between  the  two.  If 
we  take  a  Hubbard  and  cut  it  off  at  the 
hips,  we  have  only  a  dressing-sack  with  a 
yoke.  The  dressing-sack,  however,  cannot 
be  walked  on,  even  when  the  wearer  is 
stooping,  and  in  this  respect  it  has  the 
advantage  of  the  other;  it  is  also  supposed 

to  fit  in  the  back,  but  it  never  does. 
248 


249 


Doubtless  in  the  wise  economy  of  the 
universe,  where  every  weed  has  its  func- 
tion, even  this  garment  has  its  place  — 
else  it  would  not  be. 

Possibly  one  may  take  a  nap,  or  arrange 
one's  crown  of  glory  to  better  advantage 
in  a  "boudoir  n6gligee,  "  or  an  invalid  may 
be  thus  tempted  to  think  of  breakfast. 
Indeed,  the  habit  is  apt  to  begin  during 
illness,  when  a  friend  presents  the  ailing 
lady  with  a  dainty  affair  of  silk  and  lace 
which  inclines  the  suffering  soul  to  fri- 
volities. Presently  she  sits  up,  takes 
notice,  and  plans  more  garments  of  the 
sort,  so  that  after  she  fully  recovers  all 
the  world  may  see  these  becoming  things  ! 

The  worst  of  the  habit  is  that  all  the 
world  does  see.  Fancy  runs  riot  with  one 
pattern,  a  sewing-machine,  and  all  the 
remnants  a  single  purse  can  compass.  The 
lady  with  a  kindly  feeling  for  colour 
browses  along  the  bargain  counter  and 
speedily  acquires  a  rainbow  for  her  own. 
Each  morning  she  assumes  a  different 
phase,  and,  at  the  end  of  the  week,  one's 


250        ^Ijreabs  of  (Step  an&  <@olb 

recollection  of  her  is  lost  in  a  kaleidoscopic 
whirl. 

Red,  now — is  anything  prettier  than 
red?  And  how  the  men  admire  it!  Does 
not  the  dark  lady  build  wisely  who  dons  a 
red  dressing-sack  on  a  cold  morning,  that 
her  husband  may  carry  a  bright  bit  of 
colour  to  the  office  in  his  fond  memories 
of  home? 

A  book  with  a  red  cover,  a  red  cushion, 
crimson  draperies,  and  scarlet  ribbons,  are 
all  notoriously  pleasing  to  monsieur — 
why  not  a  red  dressing-sack? 

If  questioned,  monsieur  does  not  know 
why,  yet  gradually  his  passion  for  red 
will  wane,  then  fail.  Later  in  the  game, 
he  will  be  affronted  by  the  colour,  even  as 
the  gentleman  cow  in  the  pasture.  It  is 
not  the  colour,  dear  madame,  but  the  shift- 
less garment,  which  has  wrought  this 
change. 

There  are  few  who  dare  to  assume  pink, 
for  one  must  have  a  complexion  of  peaches 
and  cream,  delicately  powdered  at  that, 
before  the  rosy  hues  are  becoming.  Yet, 


251 


the  sallow  lady,  with  streaks  of  grey  in  her 
hair,  crow's  feet  around  her  eyes,  and  little 
time  tracks  registered  all  over  her  face, 
will  put  on  a  pink  dressing-sack  when  she 
gets  ready  for  breakfast.  She  would 
scream  with  horror  at  the  thought  of  a 
pink  and  white  organdie  gown,  made  over 
rosy  taffeta,  but  the  kimono  is  another 
story. 

Green  dressing-sacks  are  not  often  seen, 
but  more  's  the  pity,  for  in  the  grand  array 
of  colour  nothing  should  be  lacking,  and 
the  wearers  of  these  garments  never  seem 
to  step  to  think  whether  or  not  they  are 
becoming.  What  could  be  more  cheerful 
on  a  cloudy  morning  than  a  flannel  negligee 
of  the  blessed  shade  of  green  consecrated 
to  the  observance  of  the  seventeenth  of 
March? 

It  looks  as  well  as  many  things  which 
are  commonly  welded  into  dressing-sacks; 
then  why  this  invidious  distinction? 

When  we  approach  blue  in  our  dressing- 
sack  rainbow,  speech  becomes  pitifully 
weak.  Ancient  maidens  and  matrons,  with 


252        {Rftreab*  of  <&rep  anb 


olive  skins,  proudly  assume  a  turquoise  neg- 
ligee. Blue  flannel,  with  cascades  of  white 
lace  —  could  anything  be  more  attractive? 
It  has  only  one  rival  —  the  garment  of 
lavender  eiderdown  flannel,  the  button- 
holes stitched  with  black  yarn,  which  the 
elderly  widow  too  often  puts  on  when  the 
tide  of  her  grief  has  turned. 

The  combination  of  black  with  any 
shade  of  purple  is  well  fitted  to  produce 
grief,  even  as  the  cutting  of  an  onion  will 
bring  tears.  Could  the  dear  departed 
see  his  relict  in  the  morning,  with  lavender 
eiderdown  environment,  he  would  appre- 
ciate his  mercies  as  never  before. 

The  speaking  shades  of  yellow  and 
orange  are  much  affected  by  German 
ladies  for  dressing-sacks,  and  also  for  the 
knitted  tippets  which  our  Teutonic  friends 
wear,  in  and  out  of  the  house,  from  Octo- 
ber to  July.  Canary  yellow  is  delicate  and 
becoming  to  most,  but  it  is  German  taste 
to  wear  orange. 

At  first,  perhaps,  with  a  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things,  the  negligee  is  worn  only 


253 


in  one's  own  room.  She  says:  "It's  so 
comfortable!"  There  are  degrees  in  com- 
fort, varying  from  the  easy,  perfect  fit  of 
one's  own  skin  to  a  party  gown  which 
dazzles  envious  observers,  and  why  is  the 
adjective  reserved  for  the  educated  but 
abbreviated  Mother  Hubbard? 

"The  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man," 
and  even  more  is  woman  dependent  upon 
her  clothes  for  physical,  moral,  and  in- 
tellectual support.  An  uncorseted  body 
will  soon  make  its  influence  felt  upon  the 
mind.  The  steel-and-whalebone  spine 
which  properly  reinforces  all  feminine 
vertebra  is  literally  the  backbone  of  a 
woman's  self-respect. 

Would  the  iceman  or  the  janitor  hesi- 
tate to  "talk  back"  to  the  uncorseted 
lady  in  a  pink  dressing-sack?  —  Hardly! 

But  confront  the  erring  man  with  a 
quiet,  dignified  woman  in  a  crisp  shirt 
waist  and  a  clean  collar  —  verily  he  will 
think  twice  before  he  ventures  an  excuse 
for  his  failings. 

The  iceman  and  the  grocery  boy  see 


254        QQbreafcg  of  <&rep  anb 


more  dressing-sacks  than  most  others,  for 
they  are  privileged  to  approach  the  back 
doors  of  residences,  and  to  hold  conversa- 
tions with  the  lady  of  the  house,  after  the 
departure  of  him  whose  duty  and  pleasure 
it  is  to  pay  for  the  remnants.  And  in  the 
lower  strata  they  are  known  by  their 
clothes. 

"Fifty  pounds  for  the  red  dressing-sack," 
says  the  iceman  to  his  helper,  "and  a 
hundred  for  the  blue.  Step  lively  now!" 

And  how  should  madame  know  that  her 
order  for  a  steak,  a  peck  of  potatoes,  and 
two  lemons,  is  registered  in  the  grocery 
boy's  book  under  the  laconic  title,  '  '  Pink  '  '  ? 

After  breakfast,  when  she  sits  down  to 
read  the  paper  and  make  her  plans  for  the 
day,  the  insidious  dressing-sack  gets  in  its 
deadly  work. 

"I  won't  dress,"  she  thinks,  "until  I  get 
ready  to  go  out."  After  luncheon,  she  is 
too  tired  to  go  out,  and  too  nearly  dead  to 
dress. 

Friends  come  in,  perhaps,  and  say  :  "  Oh, 


ZEIje  Bre**tng-&at&  Habit         255 

how  comfortable  you  look!  Is  n't  that  a 
dear  kimono?"  Madame  plumes  herself 
with  conscious  pride,  for  indeed  it  is  a  dear 
kimono,  and  already  she  sees  herself  with 
a  reputation  for  "exquisite  negligee." 

The  clock  strikes  six,  and  presently  the 
lord  of  the  manor  comes  home  to  be  fed. 
"I'm  dreadfully  sorry,  dear,  you  should 
find  me  looking  so,"  says  the  lady  of  his 
heart,  "  but  I  just  have  n't  felt  well  enough 
to  dress.  You  don't  mind,  do  you?" 

The  dear,  good,  subdued  soul  says  he  is 
far  from  minding,  and  dinner  is  like  break- 
fast as  far  as  dressing-sacks  go. 

Perhaps,  in  the  far  depths  of  his  nature, 
the  man  wonders  why  it  was  that,  in  the 
halcyon  days  of  courtship,  he  never  beheld 
his  beloved  in  the  midst  of  a  gunny — no,  a 
dressing-sack.  Of  course,  then,  she  did  n't 
have  to  keep  house,  and  did  n't  have  so 
many  cares  to  tire  her.  Poor  little  thing ! 
Perhaps  she  is  n't  well ! 

Is  n't  she?  Let  another  woman  tele- 
phone that  she  has  tickets  for  the  matinee, 
and  behold  the  transformation!  Within 


certain  limits  and  barring  severe  head- 
aches, a  woman  is  always  well  enough  to  do 
what  she  wants  to  do — and  no  more. 

As  the  habit  creeps  upon  its  victim,  she 
loses  sight  of  the  fact  that  there  are  other 
clothes.  If  she  has  a  golf  cape,  she  may 
venture  to  go  to  the  letter-box  or  even  to 
market  in  her  favourite  garment.  After 
a  while,  when  the  habit  is  firmly  fixed,  a 
woman  will  wear  a  dressing-sack  all  the 
time — that  is,  some  women  will,  except  on 
rare  and  festive  occasions.  Sometimes  in 
self-defence,  she  will  say  that  her  husband 
loves  soft,  fluffy  feminine  things,  and  can't 
bear  to  see  her  in  a  tailor-made  outfit. 
This  is  why  she  wears  the  "soft  fluffy 
things,"  which,  with  her,  always  mean 
dressing-sacks,  all  the  time  he  is  away  from 
home,  as  well  as  when  he  is  there. 

It  is  a  mooted  question  whether  shift  - 
lessness  causes  dressing-sacks,  or  dressing- 
sacks  cause  shiftlessness,  but  there  is  no 
doubt  about  the  loving  association  of  the 
two.  The  woman  who  has  nothing  to  do, 
and  not  even  a  shadow  of  a  purpose  in  life, 


257 


will  enshrine  her  helpless  back  in  a  dressing- 
sack.  She  can't  wear  corsets,  because, 
forsooth,  they  "hurt"  her.  She  can't 
sit  at  the  piano,  because  it  's  hard  on  her 
back.  She  can't  walk,  because  she  "is  n't 
strong  enough.  "  She  can't  sew,  because  it 
makes  a  pain  between  her  shoulders,  and 
indeed  why  should  she  sew  when  she  has 
plenty  of  dressing-sacks? 

This  type  of  woman  always  boards, 
if  she  can,  or  has  plenty  of  servants  at  her 
command,  and,  in  either  case,  her  mind  is 
free  to  dwell  upon  her  troubles. 

First,  there  is  her  own  weak  physical 
condition.  Just  wait  until  she  tells  you 
about  the  last  pain  she  had.  She  does  n't 
feel  like  dressing  for  dinner,  but  she  will 
try  to  wash  her  face,  if  you  will  excuse  her! 
When  she  returns,  she  has  plucked  up 
enough  energy  to  change  her  dressing- 
sack! 

The  only  cure  for  the  habit  is  a  violent 
measure  which  few  indeed  are  brave  enough 
to  adopt.  Make  a  bonfire  of  the  offensive 
garments,  dear  lady  ;  then  stay  away  from 


258         3>I)tealis  of  <Srcp  anb 


the  remnant  counters,  and  after  a  while 
you  will  become  immune. 

Nothing  is  done  in  a  negligee  of  this  sort 
which  cannot  be  done  equally  well  in  a 
shirt  waist,  crisp  and  clean,  with  a  collar 
and  belt. 

There  is  a  popular  delusion  to  the  effect 
that  household  tasks  require  slipshod  gar- 
ments and  unkempt  hair,  but  let  the  frowsy 
ones  contemplate  the  trained  nurse  in  her 
spotless  uniform,  with  her  snowy  cap  and 
apron  and  her  shining  hair.  Let  the  doubt- 
ful ones  go  to  a  cooking  school,  and  see  a 
neat  young  woman,  in  a  blue  gingham 
gown  and  a  white  apron,  prepare  an  eight- 
course  dinner  and  emerge  spotless  from 
the  ordeal.  We  get  from  life,  in  most  cases, 
exactly  what  we  put  into  it.  The  world 
is  a  mirror  which  gives  us  smiles  or  frowns, 
as  we  ourselves  may  choose.  The  woman 
who  faces  the  world  in  a  shirt  waist  will  get 
shirt-waist  appreciation,  while  for  the 
dressing-sack  there  is  only  a  slipshod 
reward. 


In  tbe  ffceabow 

THE  flowers  bow  their  dainty  heads, 
And  see  in  the  shining  stream 
A  vision  of  sky  and  silver  clouds, 
As  bright  as  a  fairy's  dream. 

The  great  trees  nod  their  sleepy  boughs, 
The  song  birds  come  and  go, 

And  all  day  long,  to  the  waving  ferns 
The  south  wind  whispers  low. 

All  day  among  the  blossoms  sweet, 
The  laughing  sunbeams  play, 

And  down  the  stream,  in  rose-leaf  boats 
The  fairies  sail  away. 


259 


One  Udoman'0  Solution  of  tbe 
Servant  problem 

/ 

OEING  a  professional  woman,  my  re- 
*~^  quirements  in  the  way  of  a  house- 
maid were  rather  special.  While  at  times 
I  can  superintend  my  small  household, 
and  direct  my  domestic  affairs,  there  are 
long  periods  during  which  I  must  have 
absolute  quiet,  untroubled  by  door  bell, 
telephone,  or  the  remnants  of  roast  beef. 
There  are  two  of  us,  in  a  modern  six 
room  apartment,  in  a  city  where  the 
servant  problem  has  forced  a  large  and 
ever-increasing  percentage  of  the  popula- 
tion into  small  flats.  We  have  late  break- 
fasts, late  dinners,  a  great  deal  of  company, 
and  an  amount  of  washing,  both  house  and 
personal,  which  is  best  described  as  ''un- 
holy." 

Five  or  six  people  often  drop  in  inform^ 
260 


dotation  of  tfje  £>erbant  problem   261 

ally,  and  unexpectedly,  for  the  evening, 
which  means,  of  .course,  a  midnight 
"spread,"  and  an  enormous  pile  of  dishes 
to  be  washed  in  the  morning.  There  are, 
however,  some  advantages  connected  with 
the  situation.  We  have  a  laundress  be- 
sides the  maid ;  we  have  a  twelve-o'clock 
breakfast  on  Sunday  instead  of  a  dinner, 
getting  the  cold  lunch  ourselves  in  the 
evening,  thus  giving  the  girl  a  long  after- 
noon and  evening;  and  we  are  away 
from  home  a  great  deal,  often  staying 
weeks  at  a  time. 

The  eternal  "good  wages  to  right  party  " 
of  the  advertisements  was  our  inducement 
also,  but,  apparently,  there  were  no 
"right  parties!" 

The  previous  incumbent,  having  de- 
parted in  a  fit  of  temper  at  half  an  hour's 
notice,  and  left  me,  so  to  speak,  "in  the 
air,"  with  dinner  guests  on  the  horizon  a 
day  ahead,  I  betook  myself  to  an  intelli- 
gence office,  where,  strangely  enough,  there 
seems  to  be  no  intelligence,  and  grasped  the 
first  chance  of  relief. 


262         Cfjreabs  of  <J5rcp  anb  <&olb 


Nothing  more  unpromising  could  pos- 
sibly be  imagined.  The  new  maid  was 
sad,  ugly  of  countenance,  far  from  strong 
physically,  and  in  every  way  hopeless  and 
depressing.  She  listened,  unemotionally 
to  my  glowing  description  of  the  situation. 
Finally  she  said,  "Ay  tank  Ay  try  it." 

She  came,  looked  us  over,  worked  a  part 
of  a  week,  and  announced  that  she  could  n't 
stay.  "Ay  can't  feel  like  home  here," 
she  said.  "Ay  am  not  satisfied." 

She  had  been  in  her  last  place  for  three 
years,  and  left  because  "my's  lady,  she  go 
to  Europe. ' '  I  persuaded  her  to  try  it  for  a 
while  longer,  and  gave  her  an  extra  after- 
noon or  two  off,  realising  that  she  must  be 
homesick. 

After  keeping  us  on  tenter-hooks  for  two 
weeks,  she  sent  for  her  trunk.  I  discovered 
that  she  was  a  fine  laundress,  carefully 
washing  and  ironing  the  things  which  were 
too  fine  to  go  into  the  regular  wash;  a  most 
excellent  cook,  her  kitchen  and  pantry  were 
at  all  times  immaculate;  she  had  no 
followers,  and  few  friends;  meals  were 


Solution  of  ttc  g>erbant  -problem    263 

ready  on  the  stroke  of  the  hour,  and  she 
had  the  gift  of  management. 

Offset  to  this  was  a  furious  temper,  an 
atmosphere  of  gloom  and  depression  which 
permeated  the  house  and  made  us  feel 
funereal,  impertinence  of  a  quality  difficult 
to  endure,  and  the  callous,  unfeeling,  al- 
most inhuman  characteristics  which  often 
belong  in  a  high  degree  to  the  Swedes. 

For  weeks  I  debated  with  myself 
whether  or  not  I  could  stand  it  to  have  her 
in  the  house.  I  have  spent  an  hour  on  my 
own  back  porch,  when  I  should  have  been 
at  work,  because  I  was  afraid  to  pass 
through  the  room  which  she  happened  to 
be  cleaning.  Times  without  number,  a 
crisp  muffin,  or  a  pot  of  perfect  coffee, 
has  made  me  postpone  speaking  the 
fateful  words  which  would  have  separated 
us.  She  sighed  and  groaned  and  wept  at 
her  work,  worried  about  it,  and  was  a 
fiend  incarnate  if  either  of  us  was  five 
minutes  late  for  dinner.  We  often  hurried 
through  the  evening  meal  so  as  to  leave  her 
free  for  her  evening  out,  even  though  I  had 


264         tEfjrcabJf  of  (Step  anb 


long  since  told  her  not  to  wash  the  dishes 
after  dinner,  but  to  pile  them  neatly  in  the 
sink  and  leave  them  until  morning. 

Before  long,  however,  the  strictly  human 
side  of  the  problem  began  to  interest  me. 
I  had  cherished  lifelong  theories  in  regard 
to  the  brotherhood  of  man  and  the  up- 
lifting power  of  personal  influence.  I  had 
at  times  been  tempted  to  try  settlement 
work,  and  here  I  had  a  settlement  subject 
in  my  own  kitchen. 

There  was  not  a  suggestion  of  fault  with 
the  girl's  work.  She  kept  her  part  of  the 
contract,  and  did  it  well  ;  but  across  the  wall 
between  us,  she  glared  at  —  and  hated  —  me. 

But,  deliberately,  I  set  to  work  in  defence 
of  my  theory.  I  ignored  the  impertinence, 
and  seemingly  did  not  hear  the  crash  of 
dishes  and  the  banging  of  doors.  When 
it  came  to  an  issue,  I  said  calmly,  though 
my  soul  quaked  within  me:  "You  are  not 
here  to  tell  me  what  you  will  do  and  what 
you  won't.  You  are  here  to  carry  out  my 
orders,  and  when  you  cannot,  it  is  time  for 
you  to  go." 


of  tf)c  g>erbant  problem   265 


If  she  asked  me  a  question  about  her 
work  which  I  could  not  answer  offhand,  I 
secretly  consulted  a  standard  cook-book, 
and  later  gave  her  the  desired  information 
airily.  I  taught  her  to  cook  many  of  the 
things  which  I  could  cook  well,  and  im- 
bued her  with  a  sort  of  sneaking  respect  for 
my  knowledge.  Throughout,  I  treated 
her  with  the  perfect  courtesy  which  one 
lady  accords  to  another,  ignoring  the 
impertinence.  I  took  pains  to  say  '  '  please'  ' 
and  "thank  you."  Many  a  time  I  bit 
my  lips  tightly  against  my  own  rising  rage, 
and  afterward  in  calmness  recognised  a 
superior  opportunity  for  self-discipline. 

For  three  or  four  months,  while  the 
beautiful  theory  wavered  in  the  balance, 
we  fought  —  not  outwardly,  but  beneath 
the  surface.  Daily,  I  meditated  a  sum- 
mary discharge,  dissuaded  only  by  an 
immaculate  house  and  perfectly  cooked 
breakfasts  and  dinners.  I  still  cherished 
a  lingering  belief  in  personal  influence, 
in  spite  of  the  wall  which  reared  itself 
between  us. 


266        Cbrcabs  of  terep  anb 


A  small  grey  kitten,  with  wobbly  legs 
and  an  infantile  mew,  made  the  first  breach 
in  the  wall.  She  took  care  of  it,  loved  it, 
petted  it,  and  began  to  smile  semi-occa- 
sionally.  She,  too,  said  "please"  and 
"thank  you."  My  husband  suggested 
that  we  order  ten  kittens,  but  I  let  the 
good  work  go  on  with  one,  for  the  time 
being.  Gradually,  I  learned  that  the 
immovable  exterior  was  the  natural  pro- 
tection against  an  abnormal  sensitiveness 
both  to  praise  and  blame.  Besides  the 
cat,  she  had  two  other  "weak  spots"  — 
an  unswerving  devotion  to  a  widowed 
sister  with  two  children,  whom  she  partially 
supported,  and  a  love  for  flowers  almost 
pathetic. 

As  I  could,  without  seeming  to  make  a 
point  of  it,  I  sent  things  to  the  sister  and 
the  children  —  partially  worn  curtains,  bits 
of  ribbons,  little  toys,  and  the  like.  I  made 
her  room  as  pretty  and  dainty  as  my  own, 
though  the  furnishings  were  not  so  expen- 
sive, and  gave  her  a  potted  plant  in  a  brass 
jar.  When  flowers  were  sent  to  me,  I 


Solution  of  tfjc  iberbant  problem    267 

gave  her  a  few  for  the  vase  in  her  room. 
She  began  to  say  "we"  instead  of  "you." 
She  spoke  of  "our"  spoons,  or  "our" 
table  linen.  She  asked,  what  shall  "we" 
do  about  this  or  that?  what  shall  "we" 
have  for  dinner?  instead  of  "what  do  you 
want?"  She  began  to  laugh  when  she 
played  with  the  kitten,  and  even  to  sing 
at  her  work. 

When  she  did  well,  I  praised  her,  as  I 
had  all  along,  but  instead  of  saying,  "Iss 
dat  so?"  when  I  remarked  that  the  muffins 
were  delicious  or  the  dessert  a  great  success, 
her  face  began  to  light  up,  and  a  smile  take 
the  place  of  the  impersonal  comment. 
The  furious  temper  began  to  wane,  or,  at 
least,  to  be  under  better  control.  Guests 
occasionally  inquired,  "What  have  you 
done  to  that  maid  of  yours?  " 

Five  times  we  have  left  her,  for  one  or 
two  months  at  a  time,  on  full  salary,  with 
unlimited  credit  at  the  grocery,  and  with 
from  fifty  to  one  hundred  dollars  in  cash. 
During  the  intervals  we  heard  nothing  from 
her.  We  have  returned  each  time  to  an 


268         ^Jjrcabs  of  <0rcp  anti  <Solb 

immaculate  house,  a  smiling  maid,  a 
perfectly  cooked  and  nicely  served  meal, 
and  an  account  correct  to  a  penny,  with 
vouchers  to  show  for  it,  of  the  sum  with 
which  she  had  been  intrusted. 

I  noticed  each  time  a  vast  pride  in  the 
fact  that  she  had  been  so  trusted,  and 
from  this  developed  a  gratifying  loyalty 
to  the  establishment.  I  had  told  her  once 
to  ask  her  sister  and  children  to  spend  the 
day  with  her  while  we  were  gone.  It 
seems  that  the  children  were  noisy,  and 
the  lady  in  the  apartment  below  us  came 
up  to  object. 

An  altercation  ensued,  ending  with  a 
threat  from  the  lady  downstairs  to  "tell 
Mrs.  M.  when  she  came  home."  Annie 
told  me  herself,  with  flashing  eyes  and 
shaking  hands.  I  said,  calmly:  "The 
children  must  have  been  noisy,  or  she 
would  not  have  complained.  You  are 
used  to  them,  and  besides  it  would  sound 
worse  downstairs  than  up  here.  But  it 
does  n't  amount  to  anything,  for  I  had 
told  you  you  could  have  the  children  here, 


Solution  of  tijc  &erbant  problem   269 

and  if  I  had  n't  been  able  to  trust  you  I 
wouldn't  have  left  you."  Thus  the 
troubled  waters  were  calmed. 

The  crucial  test  of  her  qualities  came 
when  I  entered  upon  a  long  period  of 
exhaustive  effort.  The  first  day,  we  both 
had  a  hard  time,  as  her  highly  specialised 
Baptist  conscience  would  not  permit  her 
to  say  I  was  "not  at  home,"  when  I  was 
merely  writing  a  book.  After  she  thor- 
oughly understood  that  I  was  not  to  be 
disturbed  unless  the  house  took  fire, 
further  quiet  being  insured  by  disconnect- 
ing the  doorbell  and  muffling  the  telephone, 
things  went  swimmingly. 

"Annie,"  I  said,  "I  want  you  to  run 
this  house  until  I  get  through  with  my 
book.  Here  is  a  hundred  dollars  to  start 
with.  Don't  let  anybody  disturb  me." 
She  took  it  with  a  smile,  and  a  cheerful 
"all  right." 

From  that  moment  to  the  end,  I  had 
even  less  care  than  I  should  have  had  in  a 
well-equipped  hotel.  Not  a  sound  pene- 
trated my  solitude.  If  I  went  out  for  a 


270        <E(jreab«  of  dlrep  anb  (feolb 

drink  of  water,  she  did  not  speak  to  me. 
We  had  delicious  dinners  and  dainty 
breakfasts  which  might  have  waited  for 
us,  but  we  never  waited  a  moment  for 
them.  She  paid  herself  regularly  every 
Monday  morning,  kept  all  receipts,  sent 
out  my  husband's  laundry,  kept  a  strict  list 
of  it,  mended  our  clothes,  managed  our 
household  as  economically  as  I  myself 
could  have  done  it,  and,  best  of  all,  in- 
sured me  from  any  sort  of  interruption  with 
a  sort  of  fierce  loyalty  which  is  beyond 
any  money  value. 

Once  I  overheard  a  colloquy  at  my 
front  door,  which  was  briefly  and  decisively 
terminated  thus:  "Ay  already  tell  you 
dat  you  not  see  her!  She  says  to  me, 
'Annie,  you  keep  dose  peoples  off  from 
me,'  and  Ay  keep  dem  off!"  I  never  have 
known  what  dear  friend  was  thus  turned 
away  from  my  inhospitable  door. 

Fully  appreciating  my  blessings,  tae 
night  I  finished  my  work  I  went  into  the 
kitchen  with  a  crisp,  new,  five-dollar  bill. 
"Annie,"  I  said,  "here  is  a  little  extra 


Solution  of  tfje  g>erbant  problem    271 

money  for  you.  You  Ve  been  so  nice 
about  the  house  while  I  Ve  been  busy." 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide,  and  stared. 
"You  don't  have  to  do  dat,"  she  said. 

44 1  know  I  don't, "  I  laughed, 44  but  I  like 
to  do  it." 

4 'You  don't  have  to  do  dat,"  she  re- 
peated. 4 '  Ay  like  to  do  de  housekeeping." 

"  I  know,"  I  said  again,  "and  I  like  to  do 
this.  You  Ve  done  lots  of  things  for  me 
you  did  n't  have  to  do.  Why  should  n't 
I  do  something  for  you?" 

At  that  she  took  it,  offering  me  a  rough 
wet  hand,  which  I  took  gravely.  "Tank 
you,"  she  said,  and  the  tears  rolled  down 
her  cheeks. 

44 You  Ve  earned  it,"  I  assured  her, 
44  and  you  deserve  it,  and  I  'm  very  glad 
I  can  give  it  to  you." 

From  that  hour  she  has  been  welded  to 
me  in  a  bond  which  I  fondly  hope  is  in- 
destructible. She  laughs  and  sings  at  her 
work,  pets  her  beloved  kitten,  and  diffuses 
through  my  six  rooms  the  atmosphere  of 
good  cheer.  She  " looks  after  me,"  antici- 


272         tEIjreabs  of  <0rep  anb  (Solb 

pates  my  wishes,  and  dedicates  to  me  a 
continual  loyal  service  which  has  no 
equivalent  in  dollars  and  cents.  She 
asked  me,  hesitatingly,  if  she  might  not 
get  some  one  to  fill  her  place  for  three 
months  while  she  went  back  to  Sweden. 
I  did  n't  like  the  idea,  but  I  recognised 
her  well-defined  right. 

"Ay  not  go, "  she  said,  "  if  you  not  want 
me  to.  Ay  tell  my  sister  dat  I  want  to 
stay  wid  Mrs.  M.  until  she  send  me 
away." 

I  knew  she  would  have  to  go  some  time 
before  she  settled  down  to  perpetual 
residence  in  an  alien  land,  so  I  bade  her 
God-speed.  She  secured  the  substitute 
and  instructed  her,  arranged  the  matter 
of  wages,  and  vouched  for  her  honesty, 
but  not  for  her  work. 

Before  she  left  the  city,  I  found  that  the 
substitute  was  hopelessly  incompetent  and 
stupid.  When  Annie  came  to  say  "good- 
bye" to  me,  I  told  her  about  the  new  girl. 
She  broke  down  and  wept.  "Ay  sorry  Ay 
try  to  go, "  she  sobbed.  "Ay  tell  my  sister 


Solution  ot  ttje  &erbant  ffrotlem   273 

dere  iss  nobody  what  can  take  care  of 
Mrs.  M.  lakAydo!" 

I  was  quite  willing  to  agree  with  her,  but 
I  managed  to  dry  her  tears.  Discovering 
that  she  expected  to  spend  two  nights  in 
a  day  coach,  and  remembering  one  dread- 
ful night  when  I  could  get  no  berth,  I 
gave  her  the  money  for  a  sleeping-car 
ticket  both  ways,  as  a  farewell  gift.  The 
tears  broke  forth  afresh.  "You  been  so 
good  to  me  and  to  my  sister"  she  sobbed. 
"Ay  can't  never  forget  dat!" 

"Cheer  up,"  I  answered,  wiping  the 
mist  from  my  own  eyes.  "Go  on,  and 
have  the  best  time  you  ever  had  in  your 
life,  and  don't  worry  about  me — I  '11  get 
along  somehow.  And  if  you  need  money 
while  you  are  away,  write  to  me,  and 
I  '11  send  you  whatever  you  need.  We  '11 
fix  it  up  afterward. " 

Once  again  she  looked  at  me,  with 
the  strangest  look  I  have  ever  seen  on  the 
human  face. 

"Tank  you,"  she  said  slowly.  "Dere 
iss  not  many  ladies  would  say  dat. " 


274        tEftreafeg  of  <Srep  anb 


"Perhaps  not,"  I  replied,  "but,  remem- 
ber, Annie,  I  can  trust  you." 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  her  face  illumined  as 
by  some  great  inward  light,  "you  can 
trust  me!" 

I  do  not  think  she  loves  us  yet,  but  I 
believe  in  time  she  will. 

The  day  the  new  girl  came,  I  happened 
to  overhear  a  much  valued  reference  to 
myself:  "Honestly,"  she  said,  "Ay  been 
here  more  dan  one  year,  and  Ay  never 
hear  a  wrong  word  between  her  and  him, 
nor  between  her  and  me.  It  's  shust 
wonderful.  Ay  is  n't  been  see  anyting 
like  it  since  Ay  been  in  diss  country." 

"Is  it  so  wonderful?"  I  asked  myself, 
as  I  stole  away,  my  own  heart  aglow  with 
the  consciousness  of  a  moral  victory,  "  and 
is  the  lack  of  self-control  and  human 
kindness  at  the  bottom  of  the  American 
servant  problem?  Are  we  women  such 
children  that  we  cannot  deal  wisely  with 
our  intellectual  inferiors?"  And  more 
than  all  I  had  given  her,  as  I  realised  then 
for  the  first  time,  was  the  power  of  self- 


Solution  of  tfje  g>erbant  ^problem    275 

discipline  and  self-control  which  she,  all 
unknowingly,  had  developed  in  me. 

I  have  not  ceased  the  "treatment," 
even  though  the  patient  is  nearly  well. 
It  costs  me  nothing  to  praise  her  when  she 
deserves  it,  to  take  an  occasional  friend 
into  her  immaculate  kitchen,  and  to  show 
the  shining  white  pantry  shelves  (without 
papers) ,  while  she  blushes  and  smiles  with 
pleasure.  It  costs  me  nothing  to  see  that 
she  overhears  me  while  I  tell  a  friend  over 
the  telephone  how  capable  she  has  been 
during  the  stress  of  my  work,  or  how  clean 
the  house  is  when  we  come  home  after  a 
long  absence.  It  costs  me  nothing  to  send 
her  out  for  a  walk,  or  a  visit  to  a  near- 
by friend,  on  the  afternoons  when  her 
work  is  finished  and  I  am  to  be  at  home — 
nothing  to  call  her  attention  to  a  beautiful 
sunset  or  a  perfect  day,  or  to  tell  her  some 
amusing  story, that  her  simple  mind  can 
appreciate.  It  costs  me  nothing  to  tell 
her  how  well  she  looks  in  her  cap  and 
apron  (only  I  call  the  cap  a  "hair-bow"), 
nor  that  one  of  the  guests  said  she  made 


276         (Ebreafc*  of  <5rcp  anb  <6olb 

the  best  cake  she  had  ever  eaten  in  her 
life. 

It  costs  me  little  to  give  her  a  pretty 
hatpin,  or  some  other  girlish  trifle  at 
Easter,  to  bring  her  some  souvenir  of  our 
travels,  to  give  her  a  fresh  ribbon  for  her 
belt  from  my  bolt,  or  some  little  toy  "for 
de  children." 

It  means  only  a  thought  to  say  when  she 
goes  out, ' '  Good-bye !  Have  a  good  time !" 
or  to  say  when  I  go  out,  "Good-bye!  Be 
good!"  It  means  little  to  me  to  tell  her 
how  much  my  husband  or  our  guests  have 
enjoyed  the  dinner,  or  to  have  him  go 
into  the  kitchen  sometimes,  while  she  is 
surrounded  by  a  mountain  of  dishes,  with 
a  cheery  word  and  a  fifty-cent  piece. 

It  is  n't  much  out  of  my  way  to  do  a  bit 
of  shopping  for  her  when  I  am  shopping 
for  myself,  and  no  trouble  at  all  to  plan 
for  her  new  gowns,  or  to  tell  her  that  her 
new  hat  is  very  pretty  and  becoming. 

When  her  temper  gets  the  better  of  her 
these  days,  I  can  laugh  her  out  of  it. 
"To  think,"  I  said  once,  " of  a  fine,  capable 


dotation  of  tfje  derbant  problem  277 

girl  like  you  flying  into  a  rage  because 
some  one  has  borrowed  your  clothesline 
without  asking  for  it!" 

The  clouds  vanished  with  a  smile. 
"  Dat  iss  funny  of  me, "  she  said. 

When  her  work  goes  wrong,  as  of  course 
it  sometimes  does,  though  rarely,  and  she 
is  worrying  for  fear  I  shall  be  displeased, 
I  say:  "Never  mind,  Annie;  things  don't 
always  go  right  for  any  of  us.  Don't 
worry  about  it,  but  be  careful  next 
time." 

It  has  cost  me  time  and  effort  and 
money,  and  an  infinite  amount  of  patience 
and  tact,  not  to  mention  steady  warfare 
with  myself,  but  in  return,  what  have  I? 
A  housemaid,  as  nearly  perfect,  perhaps,  as 
they  can  ever  be  on  this  faulty  earth, 
permanently  in  my  service,  as  I  hope  and 
believe. 

If  any  one  offers  her  higher  wages,  I 
shall  meet  the  "bid,"  for  she  is  worth  as 
much  to  me  as  she  can  be  to  any  one  else. 
Besides  giving  me  superior  service,  she 
has  done  me  a  vast  amount  of  good  in 


278        tEIjreafca  of  <$rcp  anb  <§olb 

furnishing  me  the  needed  material  for  the 
development  of  my  character. 

On  her  own  ground,  she  respects  my 
superior  knowledge.  Once  or  twice  I 
have  heard  her  say  of  some  friend, 
"Her's  lady,  she  know  nodding  at  all 
about  de  housekeeping — no,  nodding  at 
all!" 

The  airy  contempt  of  the  tone  is  quite 
impossible  to  describe. 

A  neighbour  whom  she  assisted  in  a 
time  of  domestic  stress,  during  my  absence, 
told  me  amusedly  of  her  reception  in  her 
own  kitchen.  "You  don't  have  to  come 
all  de  time  to  de  kitchen  to  tell  me," 
remarked  Annie. 

"Does  n't  Mrs.  M.  do  that?"  queried 
my  neighbour,  lightly. 

"Ay  should  say  not,"  returned  the 
capable  one,  indignantly.  "She  nefer 
come  in  de  kitchen,  and  she  know,  too!" 

While  that  was  not  literally  true, 
because  I  do  go  into  my  kitchen  if  I  want 
to,  and  cook  there  if  I  like,  I  make  a  point 
of  not  intruding.  She  knows  what  she  is 


Solution  of  tfje  ^erbant  $rtblcm    279 

to  do,  and  I  leave  her  to  do  it,  in  peace  and 
comfort. 

Briefly  summarised,  the  solution  from 
my  point  of  view  is  this.  Know  her  work 
yourself,  down  to  the  last  detail;  pay  the 
wages  which  other  people  would  be  glad 
to  pay  for  the  same  service;  keep  your 
temper,  and,  in  the  face  of  everything,  be 
kind!  Remember  that  housework  is  hard 
work — that  it  never  stays  done — that  a 
meal  which  it  takes  half  a  day  to  prepare 
is  disposed  of  in  half  an  hour.  Remember, 
too,  that  it  requires  much  intelligence  and 
good  judgment  to  be  a  good  cook,  and 
that  the  daily  tasks  lack  inspiration.  The 
hardest  part  of  housework  must  be  done  at 
a  time  when  many  other  people  are  free 
for  rest  and  enjoyment,  and  it  carries  with 
it  a  social  bar  sinister  when  it  is  done  for 
money.  The  woman  who  does  it  for  her 
board  and  clothes,  in  her  own  kitchen,  does 
not  necessarily  lose  caste,  but  doing  it  for 
a  higher  wage,  in  another's  kitchen,  makes 
one  almost  an  outcast.  Strange  and  un- 
reasonable, but  true. 


280        {Efjreatis  of  «3rej>  anb 


It  was  at  my  own  suggestion  that  she 
began  to  leave  the  dishes  piled  up  in  the 
sink  until  morning.  When  the  room  is 
otherwise  immaculate,  a  tray  of  neatly 
piled  plates,  even  if  unwashed,  does  not 
disturb  my  aesthetic  sense. 

Ordinarily,  she  is  free  for  the  evening  at 
half-past  seven  or  a  quarter  of  eight  — 
always  by  eight.  Her  evenings  are  hers, 
not  mine,  —  unless  I  pay  her  extra,  as  I 
always  do.  A  dollar  or  s-o  counts  for 
nothing  in  the  expense  of  an  entertainment, 
and  she  both  earns  and  deserves  the  extra 
wage. 

If  I  am  to  entertain  twenty  or  thirty 
people  —  the  house  will  hold  no  more,  and 
I  cannot  ask  more  than  ten  to  dinner  —  I 
consult  with  her,  decide  upon  the  menu, 
tell  her  that  she  can  have  all  the  help  she 
needs,  and  go  my  ways  in  peace.  I  can 
order  the  flowers,  decorate  the  table,  put 
on  my  best  gown,  and  receive  my  guests, 
unwearied,  with  an  easy  mind. 

When  I  am  not  expecting  guests,  I  can 
leave  the  house  immediately  after  break- 


Solution  of  tije  &erbant  $rafelem   281 

fast,  without  a  word  about  dinner,  and 
return  to  the  right  sort  of  a  meal  at  seven 
o'clock,  bringing  a  guest  or  two  with  me, 
if  I  telephone  first. 

I  can  work  for  six  weeks  or  two  months 
in  a  seclusion  as  perfect  as  I  could  have  in 
the  Sahara  Desert,  and  my  household, 
meanwhile,  will  move  as  if  on  greased 
skids.  I  can  go  away  for  two  months  and 
hear  nothing  from  her,  and  yet  know  that 
everything  is  all  right  at  home.  I  think 
no  more  about  it,  so  far  as  responsibility 
is  concerned,  when  I  am  travelling,  than  as 
if  I  had  no  home  at  all.  When  we  leave 
the  apartment  alone  in  the  evening,  we 
turn  on  the  most  of  the  lights,  being 
assured  by  the  police  that  burglars  will 
never  molest  a  brilliantly  illuminated 
house. 

The  morose  countenance  of  my  ugly 
maid  has  subtly  changed.  It  radiates, 
in  its  own  way,  beauty  and  good  cheer. 
Her  harsh  voice  is  gentle,  her  manner  is 
kind,  her  tastes  are  becoming  refined,  her 
ways  are  those  of  a  lady. 


282         (E^reatJS  of 


My  friends  and  neighbours  continually 
allude  to  the  transformation  as  "a  mira- 
cle." The  janitor  remarked,  in  a  burst  of 
confidence,  that  he  "never  saw  anybody 
change  so."  He  "reckoned,"  too,  that 
"it  must  be  the  folks  she  lives  with!" 
Annie  herself,  conscious  of  a  change,  re- 
cently said  complacently:  "Ay  guess  Ay 
wass  one  awful  crank  when  Ay  first  come 
here." 

And  so  it  happens  that  the  highest 
satisfaction  is  connected  with  the  beauti- 
ful theory,  triumphantly  proven  now, 
against  heavy  odds.  Whatever  else  I 
may  have  done,  I  have  taught  one  woman 
the  workman's  pride  in  her  work,  shown 
her  where  true  happiness  lies,  and  set  her 
feet  firmly  on  the  path  of  right  and  joyous 
living. 


a  IDtolin 


(Antonius  Stradivarius,  1685.) 

WHAT  flights  of  years  have  gone  to  fashion 
thee, 

My  violin!    What  centuries  have  wrought 
Thy    sounding    fibres!    What    dead    fingers 

taught 

Thy  music  to  awake  in  ecstasy 
Beyond  our  human  dreams?     Thy  melody 
Is  resurrection.     Every  buried  thought 
Of  singing  bird,  or  stream,  or  south  wind, 

fraught 

With  tender  message,  or  of  sobbing  sea, 
Lives  once  again.     The  tempest's  solemn  roll 
Is  in  thy  passion  sleeping,  till  the  king 
Whose  touch  is  mastery  shall  sound  thy  soul. 
The  organ  tones  of  ocean  shalt  thou  bring, 
The  crashing  chords  of  thunder,  and  the  whole 
Vast  harmony  of  God.     Ah,  Spirit,  sing  ! 


283 


<§>R> 


of  the  best  things  the  last  century 
has  done  for  woman  is  to  mr  ke 
single-blessedness  appear  very  tolerable 
indeed,  even  if  it  be  not  actually  desirable. 

The  woman  who  did  n't  marry  used  to  be 
looked  down  upon  as  a  sort  of  a  "  left- 
over" without  a  thought,  apparently,  that 
she  may  have  refused  many  a  chance  to 
change  her  attitude  toward  the  world. 
But  now,  the  "bachelor  maid  "  is  welcomed 
everywhere,  and  is  not  considered  eccen- 
tric on  account  of  her  oneness. 

With  the  long  records  of  the  divorce 
courts  before  their  eyes,  it  is  not  very 
unusual  for  the  younger  generation  of 
women  nowadays  deliberately  to  choose 
spinsterhood  as  their  independent  lot  in 
life. 

A  girl  said  the  other  day:  "It  's  no  use 
284 


fflatd  285 


to  say  that  a  woman  can't  marry  if  she 
wants  to.  Look  around  you,  and  see  the 
women  who  have  married,  and  then  ask 
yourself  if  there  is  anybody  who  can't!" 

This  is  a  great  truth  very  concisely 
stated.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  no  woman 
ever  reached  twenty-five  years  of  age,  and 
very  few  have  passed  twenty,  without  hav- 
ing an  opportunity  to  become  somebody's 
mate. 

A  very  small  maiden  with  very  bright 
eyes  once  came  to  her  mother  with  the 
question:  "Mamma,  do  you  think  I  shall 
ever  have  a  chance  to  get  married?" 

And  the  mother  answered:  "Surely  you 
will,  my  child  ;  the  wx3ods  are  full  of  offers 
of  marriage  —  no  woman  can  avoid  them." 

And  ere  many  years  had  passed  the 
maiden  had  learned  that  the  wisdom  of 
her  mother's  prophecy  was  fully  vindi- 
cated. 

Every  one  knows  that  a  woman  needs 
neither  beauty,  talent,  nor  money  to  win 
the  deepest  and  sincerest  love  that  man 
is  capable  of  giving. 


286        tKljreaW  of  (Step  anb 


Single  life  is,  with  rare  exceptions,  a 
matter  of  choice  and  not  of  necessity  ;  and 
while  it  is  true  that  a  happy  married  life 
is  the  happiest  position  for  either  man  or 
woman,  there  are  many  things  which  are 
infinitely  worse  than  being  an  old  maid, 
and  chiefest  among  these  is  marrying  the 
wrong  man! 

The  modern  woman  looks  her  future 
squarely  in  the  face  and  decides  according 
to  her  best  light  whether  her  happiness 
depends  upon  spinsterhood  or  matrimony. 
This  decision  is  of  course  influenced  very 
largely  by  the  quality  of  her  chances  in 
either  direction,  but  if  the  one  whom  she 
fully  believes  to  be  ^e  right  man  comes 
along,  he  is  likely  to  be  able  to  overcome 
strong  objections  to  the  married  state. 
If  love  comes  to  her  from  the  right  source, 
she  takes  it  gladly;  otherwise  she  bravely 
goes  her  way  alone,  often  showing  the 
world  that  some  of  the  most  mother- 
hearted  women  are  not  really  mothers. 
Think  of  the  magnificent  solitude  of  such 
women  as  Florence  Nightingale  and  our 


tS3je  <£l&  jflatb  287 

own  splendid  Frances  Willard !  Who  shall 
say  that  these,  and  thousands  of  others  of 
earth's  grandest  souls,  were  not  better  for 
their  single-heartedness  in  the  service  of 
humanity? 

A  writer  in  a  leading  journal  recently 
said:  "The  fact  that  a  woman  remains 
single  is  a  tribute  to  her  perception.  She 
gains  an  added  dignity  from  being  hard 
to  suit." 

This,  from  the  pen  of  a  man,  is  somewhat 
of  a  revelation,  in  the  light  of  various 
masculine  criticisms  concerning  superflu- 
ous women.  No  woman  is  superfluous. 
God  made  her,  and  put  her  into  this 
world  to  help  her  fellow-beings.  There  is 
a  little  niche  somewhere  which  she,  and 
she  alone,  can  fill.  She  finds  her  own 
completeness  in  rounding  out  the  lives  of 
others. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  average  man 
may  be  piloted  through  life  by  one  woman, 
but  it  must  be  admitted  that  several  of 
him  need  somewhere  near  a  dozen  of  the 
fair  sex  to  wait  upon  him  at  the  same  time. 


288        ®fjrealjs  of  (Step  anb 


His  wife  and  mother  are  kept  "hustling," 
while  his  "sisters  and  his  aunts"  are 
likely  to  be  "on  the  keen  jump"  from  the 
time  his  lordship  enters  the  house  until  he 
leaves  it! 

But  to  return  to  the  "superfluous 
woman,"  —  although  we  cannot  literally 
return  to  her  because  she  does  not  exist. 
Of  the  "old  maid"  of  to-day,  it  is  safe  to 
say  that  she  has  her  allotted  plane  of 
usefulness.  She  is  n't  the  type  our  news- 
paper brethren  delight  to  caricature.  She 
does  n't  dwell  altogether  upon  the  subject 
of  "woman's  sphere,"  which,  by  the  way, 
comes  very  near  being  the  plane  of  the 
earth's  sphere,  and  she  need  not,  for  her 
position  is  now  well  recognised. 

She  does  n't  wear  corkscrew  curls  and 
hideous  reform  garments.  She  is  a  dainty, 
feminine,  broad-minded  woman,  and  a 
charming  companion.  Men  are  her  friends, 
and  often  her  lovers,  in  her  old  age  as  well 
as  in  her  youth. 

Every  old  maid  has  her  love  story,  a 
little  romance  that  makes  her  heart  young 


289 


again  as  she  dreams  it  over  in  the  firelight, 
and  it  calls  a  happy  smile  to  the  faded 
face. 

Or,  perhaps,  it  is  the  old,  sad  story  of 
a  faithless  lover,  or  a  happiness  spoiled 
by  gossips  —  or  it  may  be  the  scarcely  less 
sad  story  of  love  and  death. 

Ibsen  makes  two  of  his  characters,  a 
young  man  and  woman  who  love  each 
other,  part  voluntarily  on  the  top  of  a 
high  mountain  in  order  that  they  may  be 
enabled  to  keep  their  high  ideals  and  up- 
lifting love  for  each  other. 

So  the  old  maid  keeps  her  ideals,  not 
through  fulfilment,  but  through  memory, 
and  she  is  far  happier  than  many  a  woman 
who  finds  her  ideal  surprisingly  and  dis- 
agreeably real. 

The  bachelor  girl  and  the  bachelor  man 
are  much  on  the  increase.  Marriage  is 
not  in  itself  a  failure,  but  the  people  who 
enter  unwisely  into  this  solemn  covenant 
too  often  are  not  only  failures,  but  bitter 
disappointments  to  those  who  love  them 
best. 


290        SEijreaJis  of  <0rcj>  anb  (Solb 

Life  for  men  and  v/omen  means  the 
highest  usefulness  and  happiness,  for  the 
terms  are  synonymous,  neither  being  able 
to  exist  without  the  other. 

The  model  spinster  of  to-day  is  phil- 
anthropic. She  is  connected,  not  with 
innumerable  charities,  but  with  a  few  well- 
chosen  ones.  She  gives  freely  of  her  time 
and  money  in  many  ways,  where  her  left 
hand  scarcely  knoweth  what  her  right 
doeth,  and  the  record  of  her  good  works  is 
not  found  in  the  chronicles  of  the  world. 

She  is  literary,  musical,  or  artistic.  She 
is  a  devoted  and  loyal  club  member,  and 
is  well  informed  on  the  leading  topics  of 
the  day,  while  the  resources  of  her  well- 
balanced  mind  are  always  at  the  service 
of  her  friends. 

And  when  all  is  said  and  done,  the 
highest  and  truest  life  is  within  the  reach 
of  us  all.  Doing  well  whatever  is  given  us 
to  do  will  keep  us  all  busy,  and  married 
or  single,  no  woman  has  a  right  to  be  idle. 
The  old  maid  may  be  womanly  and  mother- 
hearted  as  well  as  the  wife  and  mother. 


Spinster's  IRubaipat 


WAKE!    For  the  hour  of  hope  will  soon 
take  flight 

And  on  your  form  and  features  leave  a  blight ; 
Since  Time,  who   heals  full  many  an  open 

wound, 
More  oft  than  not  is  impolite. 


II 


Before  my  relatives  began  to  chide, 
Methought  the  voice  of  conscience  said  inside : 
"  Why  should   you  want  a  husband,  when 

you  have 
A  cat  who  seldom  will  at  home  abide?" 


Ill 


And,  when  the  evening  breeze  comes  in  the 

door, 

The  lamp  smokes  like  a  chimney,  only  more; 
And  yet  the  deacon  of  the  church 
Is  telling  every  one  my  parrot  swore. 
291 


292        QDfjrealig  of  <@rep  anb 


IV 

Behold,  my  aunt  into  my  years  inquires, 
Then  swiftly  with  my  parents  she  conspires, 
And  in  the  family  record  changes  dates — 
In  that  same  book  that  says  all  men  are  liars. 


Come,  fill  the  cup  and  let  the  kettle  sing! 
What  though  upon  my  finger  gleams  no  ring, 
Save  that   cheap   turquoise  that   I  bought 

myself? 
The  coming  years  a  gladsome  change  may 

bring. 

VI 

Here,  minion,  fill  the  steaming  cup  that  clears 
The  skin  I  will  not  have  exposed  to  jeers, 
And  rub  this  wrinkle  vigorously  until 
The  maddening  crow's-foot  wholly  disappears. 

VII 

And  let  me  don  some  artificial  bloom, 

And  turn  the  lamps  down  low,  and  make  a 

gloom 

That  spreads  from  library  to  hall  and  stair; 
Thus  do  I  look  my  best — but  ah,  for  whom? 


IRigbts  of  Doge 


"\  X  TE  hear  a  great  deal  about  the  "rights 
*  *  of  men"  and  still  more,  perhaps, 
about  the  "rights  of  women,"  but  few 
stop  to  consider  those  which  properly 
belong  to  the  friend  and  companion  of 
both  —  the  dog. 

According  to  our  municipal  code,  a  dog 
must  be  muzzled  from  June  1st  to  Septem- 
ber 3Oth.  The  wise  men  who  framed  this 
measure  either  did  not  know,  or  did  not 
stop  to  consider,  that  a  dog  perspires  and 
"cools  off"  only  at  his  mouth. 

Man  and  the  horse  have  tiny  pores 
distributed  all  over  the  body,  but  in  the 
dog  they  are  found  only  in  the  tongue. 

Any  one  who  has  had  a  fever  need  not 

be  told  what  happened  when  these  pores 

ceased  to  act;  what,  then,  must  be  the 

sufferings  of  a  dog  on  a  hot  day,  when, 

293 


294        Cftreabs  of  <£rep  anb 


securely   muzzled,   he  takes  his  daily  ex- 
ercise? 

Even  on  the  coolest  days,  the  barbarous 
muzzle  will  fret  a  thoroughbred  almost  to 
insanity,  unless,  indeed,  he  has  brains  to 
free  himself,  as  did  a  brilliant  Irish  setter 
which  we  once  knew.  This  wise  dog  would 
run  far  ahead  of  his  human  guardian,  and 
with  the  help  of  his  f  orepaws  slip  the  strap 
over  his  slender  head,  then  hide  the  offend- 
ing muzzle  in  the  gutter,  and  race  onward 
again.  When  the  loss  was  discovered,  it 
was  far  too  late  to  remedy  it  by  any 
search  that  could  be  instituted. 

And  still,  without  this  uncomfortable 
encumbrance,  it  is  unsafe  for  any  valuable 
dog  to  be  seen,  even  on  his  own  doorsteps, 
for  the  "dog-catcher"  is  ever  on  the  look- 
out for  blue-blooded  victims. 

The  homeless  mongrel,  to  whom  a  pain- 
less death  would  be  a  blessing,  is  left  to 
get  a  precarious  living  as  best  he  may 
from  the  garbage  boxes,  and  spread  pesti- 
lence from  house  to  house,  but  the  setter, 
the  collie,  and  the  St.  Bernard  are  choked 


l\tg!its  of  Dogs  295 


into  insensibility  with  a  wire  noose,  hurled 
into  a  stuffy  cage,  and  with  the  thermometer 
at  ninety  in  the  shade,  are  dragged  through 
the  blistering  city,  as  a  sop  to  that  Cerberus 
of  the  law  which  demands  for  its  citizens 
safety  from  dogs,  and  pays  no  attention 
to  the  lawlessness  of  men. 

The  dog  tax  which  is  paid  every  year 
is  sufficient  to  guarantee  the  interest  of  the 
owner  in  his  dog.  Howells  has  pitied 
"the  dogless  man,"  and  Thomas  Nelson 
Page  has  said  somewhere  that  "some  of 
us  know  what  it  is  to  be  loved  by  a  dog.  " 

Countless  writers  have  paid  tribute  to 
his  fidelity  and  devotion,  and  to  the  con- 
stant forgiveness  of  blows  and  neglect 
which  spring  from  the  heart  of  the  com- 
monest cur. 

The  trained  hunter,  who  is  as  truly  a 
sportsman  as  the  man  who  brings  down  the 
birds  he  finds,  can  be  easily  fretted  into 
madness  by  the  injudicious  application  of 
the  muzzle. 

The  average  dog  is  a  gentleman  and  does 
not  attack  people  for  the  pleasure  of  it, 


296        djreabs;  of  <£>rcj>  anb  <&olb 

and  it  is  lamentably  true  that  people  who 
live  in  cities  often  find  it  necessary  to  keep 
some  sort  of  a  dog  as  a  guardian  to  life 
and  property.  In  spite  of  his  loyalty, 
which  every  one  admits,  the  dog  is  an 
absolute  slave.  Men  with  less  sense,  and 
less  morality,  constitute  a  court  from  which 
he  has  no  appeal. 

Four  or  five  years  of  devotion  to  his 
master's  interests,  and  four  or  five  years 
of  peaceful,  friendly  conduct,  count  for 
absolutely  nothing  beside  the  perjured 
statement  of  some  man,  or  even  woman, 
who,  from  spite  against  the  owner,  is 
willing  to  assert,  "the  dog  is  vicious. " 

"  He  is  very  imprudent,  a  dog  is,"  said 
Jerome  K.  Jerome.  "  He  never  makes  it  his 
business  to  inquire  whether  you  are  in  the 
right  or  wrong — never  bothers  as  to  whether 
you  are  going  up  or  down  life's  ladder — never 
asks  whether  you  are  rich  or  poor,  silly  or 
wise,  saint  or  sinner.  You  are  his  pal.  That 
is  enough  for  him,  and  come  luck  or  mis- 
fortune, good  repute  or  bad,  honour  or  shame, 
he  is  going  to  stick  to  you,  to  comfort  you, 
guard  you,  and  give  his  life  for  you,  if  need 
be — foolish,  brainless,  soulless  dog! 


Bigljts  of  JDogg  297 


"Ah!  staunch  old  friend,  with  your  deep, 
clear  eyes,  and  bright  quick  glances  that  take 
in  all  one  has  to  say,  before  one  has  time  to 
speak  it,  do  you  know  you  are  only  an  animal 
and  have  no  mind? 

"  Do  you  know  that  dull-eyed,  gin-sodden 
lout  leaning  against  the  post  out  there  is 
immeasurably  your  intellectual  superior?  Do 
you  know  that  every  little-minded  selfish 
scoundrel,  who  never  had  a  thought  that  was 
not  mean  and  base  —  whose  every  action  is  a 
fraud  and  whose  every  utterance  is  a  lie  ;  do 
you  know  that  these  are  as  much  superior  to 
you  as  the  sun  is  to  the  rush-light,  you  hon- 
ourable, brave-hearted,  unselfish  brute? 

"  They  are  men,  you  know,  and  men  are 
the  greatest,  noblest,  wisest,  and  best  beings 
in  the  universe.  Any  man  will  tell  you  that." 

Are  the  men  whom  we  elect  to  public 
office  our  masters  or  our  servants?  If  the 
former,  let  us  change  our  form  of  govern- 
ment; if  the  latter,  let  us  hope  that  from 
somewhere  a  little  light  may  penetrate 
their  craniums  and  that  they  may  be 
induced  to  give  the  dog  a  chance. 


THE  birds  were  hushed  into  silence, 
The  clouds  had  sunk  from  sight, 
And  the  great  trees  bowed  to  the  summer 

breeze 
That  kissed  the  flowers  good-night. 

The  stars  came  out  in  the  cool  still  air, 
From  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 

And  softly,  over  the  dim  blue  hills, 
Night  came  to  the  world  with  rest. 


298 


Tttflomen'0  Clothes  in  flDen's  Boofcs 

\  X  THEN  asked  why  women  wrote  better 
*  novels  than  men,  Mr.  Richard 
Le  Gallienne  is  said  to  have  replied,  more 
or  less  conclusively,  "They  don't";  thus 
recalling  Punch's  famous  advice  to  those 
about  to  marry. 

Happily  there  is  no  segregation  in  litera- 
ture, and  masculine  and  feminine  hands 
alike  may  dabble  in  fiction,  as  long  as  the 
publishers  are  willing. 

If  we  accept  Zola's  dictum  to  the  effect 
that  art  is  nature  seen  through  the  medium 
of  a  temperament,  the  thing  is  possible  to 
many,  though  the  achievement  may  differ 
both  in  manner  and  degree.  For  women 
have  temperament — too  much  of  it — as 
the  hysterical  novelists  daily  testify. 

The     gentleman      novelist,      however, 

prances   in  boldly,  where   feminine   feet 
299 


300        tEfjrcafcs  of  <Srcp  anb 


well  may  fear  to  tread,  and  consequently 
has  a  wider  scope  for  his  writing.  It  is 
not  for  a  woman  to  mingle  in  a  barroom 
brawl  and  write  of  the  thing  as  she  sees  it. 
The  prize-ring,  the  interior  of  a  cattle-ship, 
Broadway  at  four  in  the  morning  —  these 
and  countless  other  places  are  forbidden 
by  her  innate  refinement  as  well  as  by  the 
Ladies'  Own,  and  all  the  other  aunties  who 
have  taken  upon  themselves  the  guardian- 
ship of  the  Home  with  a  big  H. 

Fancy  the  outpouring  of  scorn  upon  the 
luckless  offender's  head  if  one  should  write 
to  the  Manners  and  Morals  Department 
of  the  Ladies'  Own  as  follows:  "Would  it 
be  proper  for  a  lady  novelist,  in  search  of 
local  colour  and  new  experiences,  to  accept 
the  escort  of  a  strange  man  at  midnight  if 
he  was  too  drunk  to  recognise  her  after- 
ward?" Yet  a  man  in  the  same  circum- 
stances would  not  hesitate  to  put  an  in- 
toxicated woman  into  a  sea-going  cab, 
and  would  plume  himself  for  a  year  and  a 
day  upon  his  virtuous  performance. 

All  things  are  considered  proper  for  a 


8® omen 's  Clotfjea  in  4Ben'*  JSoofes  301 

man  who  is  about  to  write  a  book.  Like 
the  disciple  of  Mary  McLane  who  stole  a 
horse  in  order  to  get  the  emotions  of  a 
police  court,  he  may  delve  deeply  not  only 
into  life,  but  into  that  under-stratum  which 
is  not  spoken  of,  where  respectable  journals 
circulate. 

Everything  is  fish  that  comes  into  his 
net.  If  conscientious,  he  may  even  under- 
take marriage  in  order  to  study  the  fem- 
inine personal  equations  at  close  range. 
Woman's  emotions,  singly  and  collectively, 
are  pilloried  before  his  scientific  gaze. 
He  cowers  before  one  problem,  and  one 
only — woman's  clothes! 

Carlyle,  after  long  and  painful  thought, 
arrives  at  the  conclusion  that  "cut  be- 
tokens intellect  and  talent;  colour  reveals 
temper  and  heart." 

This  reminds  one  of  the  language  of 
flowers,  and  the  directions  given  for 
postage-stamp  flirtation.  If  that  massive 
mind  had  penetrated  further  into  the 
mysteries  of  the  subject,  we  might  have 
been  told  that  a  turnover  collar  indicated 


302        ££fjrca&s  of  ©rcj>  anb 


that  the  woman  was  a  High  Church  Epis- 
copalian who  had  embroidered  two  altar 
cloths,  and  that  suede  gloves  show  a 
yielding  but  contradictory  nature. 

Clothes  are,  undoubtedly,  indices  of 
character  and  taste,  as  well  as  a  sop  to 
conventionality,  but  this  only  when  one 
has  the  wherewithal  to  browse  at  will  in 
the  department  store.  Many  a  woman 
with  ermine  tastes  has  only  a  rabbit-fur 
pocket-book,  and  thus  her  clothes  wrong 
her  in  the  sight  of  gods  and  women,  though 
men  know  nothing  about  it. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  notion  to 
the  effect  that  women  dressed  to  please  men, 
but  that  idea  has  long  since  been  relegated 
to  the  limbo  of  forgotten  things. 

Not  one  man  in  a  thousand  can  tell  the 
difference  between  Brussels  point  at  thirty 
dollars  a  yard,  and  imitation  Valenciennes 
at  ten  or  fifteen  cents  a  yard  which  was 
one  of  the  "famous  Friday  features  in  the 
busy  bargain  basement.  " 

But  across  the  room,  yea,  even  from 
across  the  street,  the  eagle  eye  of  another 


IHomen'*  Cloflje*  tn  Jflen'g  JSoofesf  303 

woman  can  unerringly  locate  the  Brussels 
point  and  the  mock  Valenciennes. 

A  man  knows  silk  by  the  sound  of  it  and 
diamonds  by  the  shine.  He  will  say  that 
his  heroine  "was  richly  dressed  in  silk." 
Little  does  he  wot  of  the  difference  be- 
tween taffeta  at  eighty-five  cents  a  yard 
and  broadcloth  at  four  dollars.  Still  less 
does  he  know  that  a  white  cotton  shirt- 
waist represents  financial  ease,  and  a  silk 
waist  of  festive  colouring  represents  pov- 
erty, since  it  takes  but  two  days  to  "do 
up"  a  white  shirt  waist  in  one  sense,  and 
thirty  or  forty  cents  to  do  it  up  in  the 
other ! 

One  listens  with  wicked  delight  to  men's 
discourse  upon  woman's  clothes.  Now 
and  then  a  man  will  express  his  preference 
for  a  tailored  gown,  as  being  eminently 
simple  and  satisfactory.  Unless  he  is 
married  and  has  seen  the  bills  for  tailored 
gowns,  he  also  thinks  they  are  inexpensive. 

It  is  the  benedict,  wise  with  the  acquired 
knowledge  of  the  serpent,  who  begs  his 
wife  to  get  a  new  party  gown  and  let  the 


304        {Eijreafc*  of  <&rep  anb 


tailor-made  go  until  next  season.  He 
also  knows  that  when  the  material  is 
bought,  the  expense  has  scarcely  begun, 
whereas  the  ignorant  bachelor  thinks  that 
the  worst  is  happily  over. 

In  A  Little  Journey  through  the  World 
Mr.  Warner  philosophised  thus:  "How  a 
woman  in  a  crisis  hesitates  before  her 
wardrobe,  and  at  last  chooses  just  what 
will  express  her  innermost  feelings!" 

If  all  a  woman's  feelings  were  to  be 
expressed  by  her  clothes,  the  benedicts 
would  immediately  encounter  financial 
shipwreck.  On  account  of  the  lament- 
able scarcity  of  money  and  closets,  one  is 
eternally  adjusting  the  emotion  to  the  gown. 

Some  gown,  seen  at  the  exact  psychologi- 
cal moment,  fixes  forever  in  a  man's  mind 
his  ideal  garment.  Thus  we  read  of  blue 
calico,  of  pink-and-white  print,  and  more 
often  still,  of  white  lawn.  Mad  colour 
combinations  run  riot  in  the  masculine 
fancy,  as  in  the  case  of  a  man  who  boldly 
described  his  favourite  costume  as  "red, 
with  black  ruffles  down  the  front!" 


Clotfje*  in  4Hen'*  28oofea  305 


Of  a  hat,  a  man  may  be  a  surpassingly 
fine  critic,  since  he  recks  not  of  style. 
Guileful  is  the  woman  who  leads  her  liege 
to  the  millinery  and  lets  him  choose,  tak- 
ing no  heed  of  the  price  and  the  attendant 
shock  until  later. 

A  normal  man  is  anxious  that  his  wife 
shall  be  well  dressed  because  it  shows  the 
critical  observer  that  his  business  is  a  great 
success.  After  futile  explorations  in  the 
labyrinth,  he  concerns  himself  simply  with 
the  fit,  preferring  always  that  the  clothes 
of  his  heart's  dearest  shall  cling  to  her  as 
lovingly  as  a  kid  glove,  regardless  of  the 
pouches  and  fulnesses  prescribed  by  Dame 
Fashion. 

In  the  writing  of  books,  men  are  at  their 
wits'  end  when  it  comes  to  women's  clothes. 
They  are  hampered  by  no  restrictions  — 
no  thought  of  style  or  period  enters  into 
their  calculations,  and  unless  they  have 
a  wholesome  fear  of  the  unknown  theme, 
they  produce  results  which  further  inter- 
national gaiety. 

Many  an  outrageous  garment  has  been 


306        {Efjreab*  of  <@rep«  anfc 


embalmed  in  a  man's  book,  simply  because 
an  attractive  woman  once  wore  something 
like  it  when  she  fed  the  novelist.  Un- 
balanced by  the  joy  of  the  situation,  he 
did  not  accurately  observe  the  garb  of  the 
ministering  angel,  and  hence  we  read  of 
"a  clinging  white  gown"  in  the  days  of 
stiff  silks  and  rampant  crinoline;  of  "the 
curve  of  the  upper  arm"  when  it  took  five 
yards  for  a  pair  of  sleeves,  and  of  "short 
walking  skirts"  during  the  reign  of  bustles 
and  trains  ! 

In  The  Blazed  Trail,  Mr.  White  observes 
that  his  heroine  was  clad  in  brown  which 
fitted  her  slender  figure  perfectly.  As 
Hilda  had  yellow  hair,  "like  corn  silk," 
this  was  all  right,  and  if  the  brown  was  of 
the  proper  golden  shade,  she  was  doubtless 
stunning  when  Thorpe  first  saw  her  in  the 
forest.  But  the  gown  could  not  have 
fitted  her  as  the  sheath  encases  the  dagger, 
for  before  the  straight-front  corsets  there 
were  the  big  sleeves,  and  still  further  back 
were  bustles  and  bouffant  draperies.  One 
does  not  get  the  impression  that  The 


Clot&e*  in  ^Hen'g  $ooiiS  307 


Blazed  Trail  was  placed  in  the  days  of 
crinolines,  but  doubtless  Hilda's  clothes 
did  not  fit  as  Mr.  White  seems  to  think 
they  did. 

That  strenuous  follower  of  millinery,  Mr. 
Gibson,  might  give  lessons  to  his  friend, 
Mr.  Davis,  with  advantage  to  the  writer,  if 
not  to  the  artist.  In  Captain  Macklin, 
the  young  man's  cousin  makes  her  first 
appearance  in  a  thin  gown,  and  a  white 
hat  trimmed  with  roses,  reminding  the  ad- 
venturous captain  of  a  Dresden  statuette, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  wore  heavy 
gauntlet  gloves  and  carried  a  trowel. 
The  lady  had  been  doing  a  hard  day's 
work  in  the  garden.  No  woman  outside 
the  asylum  ever  did  gardening  in  such  a 
costume,  and  Mr.  Davis  evidently  has  the 
hat  and  gown  sadly  mixed  with  some  other 
pleasant  impression. 

The  feminine  reader  immediately  hides 
Mr.  Davis'  mistake  with  the  broad  mantle 
of  charity,  and  in  her  own  mind  clothes 
Beatrice  properly  in  a  short  walking  skirt, 
heavy  shoes,  shirtwaist,  old  hat  tie$  down 


of 


over  the  ears  with  a  rumpled  ribbon,  and  a 
pair  of  ancient  masculine  gloves,  long  since 
discarded  by  their  rightful  owner.  Thus 
does  lovely  woman  garden,  except  on  the 
stage  and  in  men's  books. 

In  The  Story  of  Eva,  Mr.  Payne  an- 
nounces that  Eva  climbed  out  of  a  cab  in 
"a  fawn-coloured  jacket,"  conspicuous  by 
reason  of  its  newness,  and  a  hat  "with  an 
owl's  head  upon  it!" 

The  jacket  was  possibly  a  coat  of  tan 
covert  cloth  with  strapped  seams,  but  it  is 
the  startling  climax  which  claims  atten- 
tion. An  owl!  Surely  not,  Mr.  Payne! 
It  may  have  been  a  parrot,  for  once  upon 
a  time,  before  the  Audubon  Society  met 
with  widespread  recognition,  women  wore 
such  things,  and  at  afternoon  teas  where 
many  fair  ones  were  gathered  together 
the  parrot  garniture  was  not  without 
significance.  But  an  owl's  face,  with  its 
glaring  glassy  eyes,  is  too  much  like  a 
pussy  cat's  to  be  appropriate,  and  one 
could  not  wear  it  at  the  back  without 
conveying  an  unpleasant  impression  of 


Hlomen's  Clotfjesf  in  4Hen'*  28ook$  309 

two-facedness,  if  the  coined  word  be  per- 
missible. 

Still  the  owl  is  no  worse  than  the  trim- 
ming suggested  by  a  funny  paper.  The 
tears  of  mirth  come  yet  at  the  picture  of  a 
hat  of  rough  straw,  shaped  like  a  nest,  on 
which  sat  a  full-fledged  Plymouth  Rock 
hen,  with  her  neck  proudly,  yet  graciously 
curved.  Perhaps  Mr.  Payne  saw  the 
picture  and  forthwith  decided  to  do  some- 
thing in  the  same  line,  but  there  is  a 
singular  inappropriateness  in  placing  the 
bird  of  Minerva  upon  the  head  of  poor 
Eva,  who  made  the  old,  old  bargain  in 
which  she  had  everything  to  lose,  and 
nothing  save  the  bitterest  experience  to 
gain.  A  stuffed  kitten,  so  young  and 
innocent  that  its  eyes  were  still  blue  and 
bleary,  would  have  been  more  appropriate 
on  Eva's  bonnet,  and  just  as  pretty. 

In  The  Fortunes  of  Oliver  Horn,  Margaret 
Grant  wears  a  particularly  striking  costume : 

"  The  cloth  skirt  came  to  her  ankles, 
which  were  covered  with  yarn  stockings, 
and  her  feet  were  encased  in  shoes  that  gave 


3io        QDijreafcg  of  <&rep  anb 


him  the  shivers,  the  soles  being  as  thick  as 
his  own  and  the  leather  as  tough. 

"  Her  blouse  was  of  grey  flannel,  belted  to 
the  waist  by  a  cotton  saddle-girth,  white  and 
red,  and  as  broad  as  her  hand.  The  tam-o- 
shanter  was  coarse  and  rough,  evidently 
home-made,  and  not  at  all  like  McFudd's, 
which  was  as  soft  as  the  back  of  a  kitten  and 
without  a  seam." 

With  all  due  respect  to  Mr.  Smith,  one 
must  insist  that  Margaret's  shoes  were  all 
right  as  regards  material  and  build.  She 
would  have  been  more  comfortable  if  they 
had  been  "high-necked"  shoes,  and,  in 
that  case,  the  yarn  hosiery  would  not  have 
troubled  him,  but  that  is  a  minor  detail. 
The  quibble  comes  at  the  belt,  and  know- 
ing that  Margaret  was  an  artist,  we  must 
be  sure  that  Mr.  Smith  was  mistaken.  It 
may  have  been  one  of  the  woven  cotton 
belts,  not  more  than  two  inches  wide, 
which,  for  a  dizzy  moment,  were  at  the 
height  of  fashion,  and  then  tottered  and 
fell,  but  a  "saddle-girth"  —  never! 

In  that  charming  morceau,  The  Inn  of 
the  Silver  Moon,  Mr.  Viele  puts  his  heroine 


's  Closest  in  ^Hcn'jf  2Books  311 


into  plaid  stockings  and  green  knicker- 
bockers —  an  outrageous  costume  truly, 
even  for  wheeling. 

As  if  recognising  his  error,  and,  with 
veritable  masculine  stubbornness,  re- 
fusing to  admit  it,  Mr.  Viele  goes  on  to 
say  that  the  knickerbockers  were  "tailor- 
made!"  And  thereby  he  makes  a  bad 
matter  very  much  worse. 

In  The  Wings  of  the  Morning,  Iris,  in 
spite  of  the  storm  through  which  the 
Sirdar  vainly  attempts  to  make  its  way, 
appears  throughout  in  a  "lawn  dress"  — 
white,  undoubtedly,  since  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men  profess  to  admire  white 
lawn! 

How  cold  the  poor  girl  must  have  been  ! 
And  even  if  she  could  have  been  so  in- 
appropriately gowned  on  shipboard,  she 
had  plenty  of  time  to  put  on  a  warm  and 
suitable  tailor-made  gown  before  she  was 
shipwrecked.  This  is  sheer  fatuity,  for 
any  one  with  Mr.  Tracy's  abundant 
ingenuity  could  easily  have  contrived  ruin 
for  the  tailored  gown  in  time  for  Iris  to 


312        Q£i)reai!*  of  <J5rct>  anto  <£>alb 

assume  masculine  garb  and  participate 
bravely  in  that  fearful  fight  on  the  ledge. 

Whence,  oh  whence,  comes  this  fond- 
ness for  lawn?  Are  not  organdies,  dimi- 
ties, and  embroidered  muslins  fully  as 
becoming  to  the  women  who  trip  daintily 
through  the  pages  of  men's  books?  Lawn 
has  been  a  back  number  for  many  a  weary 
moon,  and  still  we  read  of  it ! 

"When  in  doubt,  lead  trumps,"  might 
well  be  paraphrased  thus:  "When  in 
doubt,  put  her  into  white  lawn!"  Even 
"  J.  P.  M.,"  that  gentle  spirit  to  whom  so 
many  hidden  things  were  revealed,  sent 
his  shrewish  "Kate"  off  for  a  canter 
through  the  woods  in  a  white  gown,  and, 
if  memory  serves,  it  was  lawn ! 

In  The  Master,  Mr.  Zangwill  describes 
Eleanor  Wyndwood  as  "the  radiant  appari- 
tion of  a  beautiful  woman  in  a  shimmering 
amber  gown,  from  which  her  shoulders  rose 
dazzling." 

So  far  so  good.  But  a  page  or  two 
farther  on,  that  delightful  minx,  Olive 
Regan,  wears  "a  dress  of  soft  green-blue 


's!  Clones  tn  ^len'g  $oofe*  313 


cut  high,  with  yellow  roses  at  the  throat." 
One  wonders  whether  Mr.  Zangwill  ever 
really  saw  a  woman  in  any  kind  of  a  gown 
"with  yellow  roses  at  the  throat,"  or 
whether  it  is  but  the  slip  of  an  overstrained 
fancy.  The  fact  that  he  has  married  since 
writing  this  gives  a  goodly  assurance  that 
by  this  time  he  knows  considerably  more 
about  gowns. 

Still  there  is  always  a  chance  that  the 
charm  may  not  work,  for  Mr.  Arthur 
Stringer,  who  has  been  reported  as  being 
married  to  a  very  lovely  woman,  takes 
astonishing  liberties  in  The  Silver  Poppy: 

"  She  floated  in  before  Reppellier,  buoyant, 
smiling,  like  a  breath  of  open  morning  itself, 
a  confusion  of  mellow  autumnal  colours  in 
her  wine-coloured  gown,  and  a  hat  of  roses 
and  mottled  leaves. 

"  Before  she  had  as  much  as  drawn  off  her 
gloves  —  and  they  were  always  the  most  spot- 
less of  white  gloves  —  she  glanced  about  in 
mock  dismay,  and  saw  that  the  last  of  the 
righting  up  had  already  been  done." 

Later,  we  read  that  the  artist  pinned  an 
American  Beauty  upon  her  gown,  then 


314        3£f)reafe£  of  <§tep  anb 


shook  his  head  over  the  colour  combina- 
tion and  took  it  off.  If  the  American 
Beauty  jarred  enough  for  a  man  to  notice 
it,  the  dress  must  have  been  the  colour 
of  claret,  or  Burgundy,  rather  than  the 
clear  soft  gold  of  sauterne. 

This  brings  us  up  with  a  short  turn 
before  the  hat.  What  colour  were  the 
roses?  Surely  they  were  not  American 
Beauties,  and  they  could  not  have  been 
pink.  Yellow  roses  would  have  been  a 
fright,  so  they  must  have  been  white  ones, 
and  a  hat  covered  with  white  roses  is 
altogether  too  festive  to  wear  in  the 
morning.  The  white  gloves  also  would 
have  been  sadly  out  of  place. 

What  a  comfort  it  would  be  to  all 
concerned  if  the  feminine  reader  could 
take  poor  Cordelia  one  side  and  fix  her 
up  a  bit!  One  could  pat  the  artistic 
disorder  out  of  her  beautiful  yellow  hair, 
help  her  out  of  her  hideous  clothes  into  a 
grey  tailor-made,  with  a  shirt  waist  of 
mercerised  white  cheviot,  put  on  a  stock 
of  the  same  material,  give  her  a  "ready- 


ZHomen's  Clotfjes  m  glen's  JSoofeg  315 

to-wear"  hat  of  the  same  trig- tailored 
quality,  and,  as  she  passed  out,  hand  her 
a  pair  of  grey  suede  gloves  which  exactly 
matched  her  gown. 

Though  grey  would  be  more  becoming, 
she  might  wear  tan  as  a  concession  to  Mr. 
Stringer,  who  evidently  likes  yellow. 

In  the  same  book,  we  find  a  woman  who 
gathers  up  her  "yellow  skirts"  and  goes 
down  a  ladder.  It  might  have  been  only  a 
yellow  taffeta  drop-skirt  under  tan  etamine, 
but  we  must  take  his  word  for  it,  as  we  did 
not  see  it  and  he  did. 

As  the  Chinese  keep  the  rat  tails  for 
the  end  of  the  feast,  the  worst  clothes  to 
be  found  in  any  book  must  come  last  by 
way  of  climax.  Mr.  Dixon,  in  The  Leo- 
pard's Spots,  has  easily  outdone  every 
other  knight  of  the  pen  who  has  entered 
the  lists  to  portray  women's  clothes. 
Listen  to  the  inspired  description  of  Miss 
Sallie's  gown ! 

"  She  was  dressed  in  a  morning  gown  of  a 
soft  red  material,  trimmed  with  old  cream 
lace.  The  material  of  a  woman's  dress  had 


316        Cfjrea&s  of  0rep  anb 


never  interested  him  before.  He  knew  calico 
from  silk,  but  beyond  that  he  never  ven- 
tured an  opinion.  To  colour  alone  he  was 
responsive.  This  combination  of  red  and 
creamy  white,  with  the  bodice  cut  low,  showing 
the  lines  of  her  beautiful  white  shoulders,  and 
the  great  mass  of  dark  hair  rising  in  graceful 
curves  from  her  full  round  neck,  heightened 
her  beauty  to  an  extraordinary  degree. 

"  As  she  walked,  the  clinging  folds  of  her 
dress,  outlining  her  queenly  figure,  seemed 
part  of  her  very  being,  and  to  be  imbued 
with  her  soul.  He  was  dazzled  with  the  new 
revelation  of  her  power  over  him." 

The  fact  that  she  goes  for  a  ride  later 
on,  "dressed  in  pure  white,"  sinks  into 
insignificance  beside  this  new  and  original 
creation  of  Mr.  Dixon's.  A  red  morning 
gown,  trimmed  with  cream  lace,  cut  low 
enough  to  show  the  "beautiful  white 
shoulders"  —  ye  gods  and  little  fishes! 
Where  were  the  authorities,  and  why  was 
not  "Miss  Sallie"  taken  to  the  detention 
hospital,  pending  an  inquiry  into  her 
sanity? 

It  would  seem  that  any  man,  especially 
one  who  writes  books,  could  be  sure  of  a 


Women's  Clotted  in  fUcn's  #oofe*  317 

number  of  women  friends.  Among  these 
there  ought  to  be  at  least  one  whom  he 
could  take  into  his  confidence.  The  gen- 
tleman novelist  might  go  to  the  chosen 
one  and  say:  "My  heroine,  in  moderate 
circumstances,  is  going  to  the  matinee 
with  a  girl  friend.  What  shall  she  wear?" 

Instantly  the  discerning  woman  would 
ask  the  colour  of  her  eyes  and  hair,  and 
the  name  of  the  town  she  lived  in,  then 
behold! 

Upon  the  writer's  page  would  come  a 
radiant  feminine  vision,  clothed  in  her 
right  mind  and  in  proper  clothes,  to  the 
joy  of  every  woman  who  reads  the  book. 

But  men  are  proverbially  chary  of  their 
confidence,  except  when  they  are  in  love, 
and  being  in  love  is  supposed  to  put  even 
book  women  out  of  a  man's  head.  Per- 
haps in  the  new  Schools  of  Journalism 
which  are  to  be  inaugurated,  there  will  be 
supplementary  courses  in  millinery  elec- 
tive, for  those  who  wish  to  learn  the  trade 
of  novel  writing. 

If  a  man  knows  no  woman  to  whom  he 


3i8         Cf)ftati0  of  tf^rep  and 


can  turn  for  counsel  and  advice  at  the 
critical  point  in  his  book,  there  are  only 
two  courses  open  to  him,  aside  from  the 
doubtful  one  of  evasion.  He  may  let  his 
fancy  run  riot  and  put  his  heroine  into 
clothes  that  would  give  even  a  dumb 
woman  hysterics,  or  he  may  follow  the 
example  of  Mr.  Chatfield-Taylor,  who 
says  of  one  of  his  heroines  that  "her  pliant 
body  was  enshrouded  in  white  muslin  with 
a  blue  ribbon  at  the  waist.  " 

Lacking  the  faithful  hench-woman  who 
would  gladly  put  them  straight,  the  ma- 
jority of  gentlemen  novelists  evade  the 
point,  and,  so  far  as  clothes  are  concerned, 
their  heroines  are  as  badly  off  as  the 
Queen  of  Spain  was  said  to  be  for  legs. 

They  delve  freely  into  emotional  situa- 
tions, and  fearlessly  attempt  profound 
psychological  problems,  but  slide  off  like 
frightened  crabs  when  they  strike  the 
clothesline. 

After  all,  it  may  be  just  as  well,  since 
fashion  is  transient  and  colours  and  ma- 
terial do  not  vary  much.  Still,  judging  by 


Clotfje*  in  ^flen's  Roofed  319 


the  painful  mistakes  that  many  of  them 
have  made,  the  best  advice  that  one  can 
give  the  gallant  company  of  literary  crafts- 
men is  this:  "When  you  come  to  millinery, 
crawfish!" 


flDaibene  of  tbe  Sea 

FAR  out  in  the  ocean,  deep  and  blue, 
Where  the  winds  dance  wild  and  free, 
In  coral  caves,  dwells  a  beautiful  band — 
The  maidens  of  the  sea. 

There  are  stories  old,  of  the  mystic  tide, 
And  legends  strange,  of  the  deep, 

How  the  witching  sound  of  the  siren's  song 
Can  lull  the  tempest  to  sleep. 

When  moonlight  falls  on  a  crystal  sea, 
When  the  clouds  have  backward  rolled, 

The  mermaids  sing  their  low  sweet  songs, 
And  their  harp  strings  are  of  gold. 

The  billows  come  from  the  vast  unknown — 
From  their  far-away  unseen  home; 

The  waves  bring  shells  to  the  sandy  bar, 
And  the  fairies  dance  on  the  foam. 


320 


Ebe  ^Technique  of  tbe  Sbort  £ton> 

A  N  old  rule  for  those  who  would  be  well- 
**  dressed  says:  "When  you  have  fin- 
ished, go  to  the  mirror  and  see  what  you 
can  take  off. "  The  same  rule  applies  with 
equal  force  to  the  short  story:  "When  you 
have  written  it  out,  go  over  it  carefully, 
and  see  what  you  can  take  out. " 

Besides  being  the  best  preparation  for 
the  writing  of  novels,  short-story  writing 
is  undoubtedly,  at  the  present  time,  the 
best  paying  and  most  satisfactory  form  of 
any  ephemeral  literary  work.  The  quali- 
ties which  make  it  successful  are  to  be 
attained  only  by  constant  and  patient 
practice.  The  real  work  of  writing  a 
story  may  be  brief,  but  years  of  prepara- 
tion must  be  worked  through  before  a 
manuscript,  which  may  be  written  in  an 
hour  or  so,  can  present  an  artistic  result. 

321 


322        3H)reabg  of  <@rep  anb 


The  first  and  most  important  thing  to 
consider  is  the  central  idea.  There  are 
only  a  few  ideas  in  the  world,  but  their 
ramifications  are  countless,  and  one  need 
never  despair  of  a  theme.  Your  story 
may  be  one  of  either  failure  or  success, 
but  it  must  have  the  true  ring.  Given  the 
man  and  the  circumstances,  we  should 
know  his  action. 

The  plot  must  unfold  naturally;  other- 
wise it  will  be  a  succession  of  distinct 
sensations,  rather  than  a  complete  and 
harmonious  whole. 

There  is  no  better  way  to  produce  this 
effect  than  to  follow  Edmund  Russell's 
rule  of  colour  in  dress  :  "When  a  contrasting 
colour  is  introduced,  there  should  be  at 
least  two  subordinate  repetitions  of  it.  " 

Each  character  should  appear,  or  be 
spoken  of,  at  least  twice  before  his  main 
action.  Following  this  rule  makes  one 
of  the  differences  between  artistic  and 
sensational  literature. 

The  heroine  of  a  dime  novel  always  finds 
a  hero  to  rescue  her  in  the  nick  of  time, 


{Eerfjnigue  of  tfjc  &fjort  g>torp       323 

and  perhaps  she  never  sees  him  again. 
In  the  artistic  novel,  while  the  heroine  may 
see  the  rescuer  first  at  the  time  she  needs 
him  most,  he  never  disappears  altogether 
from  the  story. 

Description  is  a  thing  which  is  much 
abused.  There  is  no  truer  indication  of 
an  inexperienced  hand  than  a  story  be- 
ginning with  a  description  of  a  landscape 
which  is  not  necessary  to  the  plot.  If  the 
peculiarities  of  the  scenery  must  be  under- 
stood before  the  idea  can  be  developed,  the 
briefest  possible  description  is  not  out  of 
place.  Subjectively,  a  touch  of  landscape 
or  weather  is  allowable,  but  it  must  be 
purely  incidental.  Weather  is  a  very  com- 
mon thing  and  is  apt  to  be  uninteresting. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  tell  anything  yourself 
which  the  people  in  the  story  could  inform 
the  reader  without  your  assistance.  A 
conversation  between  two  people  will 
bring  out  all  the  facts  necessary  as  well  as 
two  pages  of  narration  by  the  author. 

There  is  a  way  also  of  telling  things 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  persons 


324         CfjreatiJJ  of  (Srep  anfc  <&olb 

which  they  concern.  Those  who  have 
studied  Latin  will  find  the  "indirect  dis- 
course "  of  Cicero  a  useful  model. 

The  people  in  the  story  can  tell  their 
own  peculiarities  better  than  the  author 
can  do  it  for  them.  It  is  not  necessary 
to  say  that  a  woman  is  a  snarling,  grumpy 
person.  Bring  the  old  lady  in,  and  let  her 
snarl,  if  she  is  in  your  story  at  all. 

The  choice  of  words  is  not  lightly  to  be 
considered.  Never  use  two  adjectives 
where  one  will  do,  or  a  weak  word  where  a 
stronger  one  is  possible.  Fallows'  100,000 
Synonyms  and  Antonyms  and  Roget's 
Thesaurus  of  Words  and  Phrases  will  prove 
invaluable  to  those  who  wish  to  improve 
themselves  in  this  respect. 

Analysis  of  sentences  which  seem  to  you 
particularly  strong  is  a  good  way  to 
strengthen  your  vocabulary.  Take,  for 
instance,  the  oft-quoted  expression  of 
George  Eliot's:  "Inclination  snatches 
argument  to  make  indulgence  seem  judi- 
cious choice."  Substitute  "takes"  for 
"snatches"  and  read  the  sentence  aga*?*- 


of  tfjc  g>fjort  g>torj>      325 


Leave  out  "seem"  and  put  "appear"  in  its 
place.  "Proper"  is  a  synonym  for  "judi- 
cious"; substitute  it,  and  put  "selection" 
in  the  place  of  "choice.  " 

Reading  the  sentence  again  we  have: 
"Inclination  takes  argument  to  make 
indulgence  appear  proper  selection."  The 
strength  is  wholly  gone  although  the 
meaning  is  unchanged. 

Find  out  what  you  want  to  say,  and  then 
say  it,  in  the  most  direct  English  at  your 
command.  One  of  the  best  models  of 
concise  expressions  of  thought  is  to  be 
found  in  the  essays  of  Emerson.  He  com- 
presses a  whole  world  into  a  single  sentence, 
and  a  system  of  philosophy  into  an  epigram. 

"Literary  impressionism,"  which  is 
largely  the  use  of  onomatopdetic  words,  is 
a  valuable  factor  in  the  artistic  short  story. 
It  is  possible  to  convey  the  impression  of  a 
threatening  sky  and  a  stormy  sea  without 
doing  more  than  alluding  to  the  crash  of 
the  surf  against  the  shore.  The  mind  of 
the  reader  accustomed  to  subtle  touches 
will  at  once  picture  the  rest. 


326        {Eijreafc*  of  <&rep  anb 


An  element  of  strength  is  added  also  by 
occasionally  referring  an  impression  to 
another  sense.  For  instance,  the  news- 
paper poet  writes:  "The  street  was  white 
with  snow,"  and  makes  his  line  common- 
place doggerel.  Tennyson  says:  "The 
streets  were  dumb  with  snow,"  and  his  line 
is  poetry. 

"Blackening  the  background"  is  a  com- 
mon fault  with  story  writers.  In  many 
of  the  Italian  operas,  everybody  who  does 
not  appear  in  the  final  scene  is  killed  off 
in  the  middle  of  the  last  act.  This  whole- 
sale slaughter  is  useless  as  well  as  inartistic. 
The  true  artist  does  not,  in  order  that  his 
central  figure  may  stand  out  prominently, 
make  his  background  a  solid  wall  of  gloom. 
Yet  gloom  has  its  proper  place,  as  well  as 

joy. 

In  the  old  tragedies  of  the  Greeks,  just 
before  the  final  catastrophe,  the  chorus  is 
supposed  to  advance  to  the  centre  of  the 
theatre  and  sing  a  bacchanal  of  frensied 
exultation. 

In  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles,  just  before 


tEecfjmque  ot  tfje  g>fjort  g>torp      327 

the  death  of  Antigone  and  her  lover,  the 
chorus  sings  an  ode  which  makes  one  won- 
der at  its  extravagant  expression.  When 
the  catastrophe  occurs,  the  mystery  is 
explained.  Sophocles  meant  the  sacri- 
fice of  Antigone  to  come  home  with  its 
full  force;  and  well  he  attained  his  end 
by  use  of  an  artistic  method  which  few  of 
our  writers  are  subtle  enough  to  recognise 
and  claim  for  their  own  purposes. 

"High-sounding  sentences,"  which  an 
inexperienced  writer  is  apt  to  put  into  the 
mouths  of  his  people,  only  make  them 
appear  ridiculous.  The  schoolgirl  in  the 
story  is  too  apt  to  say:  "The  day  has  been 
most  unpleasant,"  whereas  the  real  school- 
girl throws  her  books  down  with  a  bang, 
and  declares  that  she  has  "had  a  perfectly 
horrid  time!" 

Her  grammar  may  be  incorrect,  but  her 
method  of  expression  is  true  to  life,  and 
there  the  business  of  the  writer  ends. 

Put  yourself  in  your  hero's  place  and 
see  what  you  would  do  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances. If  you  were  in  love  with  a 


328        tEJjreabtf  of  ®rej>  anfc 


young  woman,  you  would  n't  get  down  on 
your  knees,  and  swear  by  all  that  was 
holy  that  you  would  die  if  she  did  n't 
marry  you,  at  the  same  time  tearing  your 
hair  out  by  handfuls,  and  then  endeavour 
to  give  her  a  concise  biography  of  your- 
self. 

You  would  put  your  arm  around  her, 
the  first  minute  you  had  her  to  yourself,  if 
you  felt  reasonably  sure  that  she  cared  for 
you,  and  tell  her  what  she  meant  to  you  — 
perhaps  so  low  that  even  the  author  of  the 
story  could  n't  hear  what  you  said,  and 
would  have  to  describe  what  he  saw 
afterward  in  order  to  let  his  reader  guess 
what  had  really  happened. 

It  is  a  lamentable  fact  that  the  descrip- 
tion of  a  person's  features  gives  absolutely 
no  idea  of  his  appearance.  It  is  better  to 
give  a  touch  or  two,  and  let  the  imagina- 
tion do  the  rest.  "Hair  like  raven's 
wing,"  and  the  "midnight  eyes,"  and  many 
similar  things,  may  be  very  well  spared. 
The  personal  charms  of  the  lover  may  be 
brought  out  through  the  mediations  of 


{Technique  of  tfje  £>f)ort  g>torp      329 

the  lovee,  much  better  than  by  pages  of 
description. 

The  law  of  compensation  must  always 
have  its  place  in  the  artistic  story.  Those 
who  do  wrong  must  suffer  wrong — those 
who  work  must  be  rewarded,  if  not  in  the 
tangible  things  they  seek,  at  least  in  the 
conscious  strength  that  comes  from  strug- 
gling. And  "poetic  justice,"  which  metes 
out  to  those  who  do  the  things  that  they 
have  done,  is  relentless  and  eternal,  in  art, 
as  well  as  in  life. 

"Style"  is  purely  an  individual  matter, 
and,  if  it  is  anything  at  all,  it  is  the  expres- 
sion of  one's  self.  Zola  has  said  that, 
"art  is  nature  seen  through  the  medium  of 
a  temperament,"  and  the  same  is  true  of 
literature.  Bunner's  stories  are  as  thor- 
oughly Bunner  as  the  man  who  wrote 
them,  and  The  Badge  of  Courage,  is  nothing 
unless  it  be  the  moody,  sensitive,  half- 
morbid  Stephen  Crane. 

Observation  of  things  nearest  at  hand 
and  the  sympathetic  understanding  of 
people  are  the  first  requisites.  Do  not 


330        tEfjreabs  of  ^rep  anb 


place  the  scene  of  a  story  in  Europe  if  you 
have  never  been  there,  and  do  not  assume 
to  comprehend  the  inner  life  of  a  Congress- 
man if  you  have  never  seen  one.  Do  not 
write  of  mining  camps  if  you  have  never 
seen  a  mountain,  or  of  society  if  you  have 
never  worn  evening  dress. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley  has  made  him- 
self loved  and  honoured  by  writing  of 
the  simple  things  of  home,  and  Louisa 
Alcott's  name  is  a  household  word  because 
she  wrote  of  the  little  women  whom  she 
knew.  Eugene  Field  has  written  of  the 
children  that  he  loved  and  understood, 
and  won  a  truer  fame  than  if  he  had 
undertaken  The  Master  of  Zangwill. 
Kipling's  life  in  India  has  given  us  Plain 
Tales  from  the  Hills  and  The  Jungle  Book, 
which  Mary  E.  Wilkins  could  not  have 
written  in  spite  of  the  genius  which 
made  her  New  England  stories  the  most 
effective  of  their  •  kind.  Joel  Chandler 
Harris  could  not  have  written  The  Pris- 
oner of  Zenda,  but  those  of  us  who  have 
enjoyed  the  wiles  of  that  "monstus 


of  tfje  £>f)ort  g>torp      331 


soon   beast,    Brer    Rabbit,"   would    not 
have  it  otherwise. 

You  cannot  write  of  love  unless  you 
have  loved,  of  suffering  unless  you  have 
suffered,  or  of  death  unless  some  one  who 
was  near  to  you  has  learned  the  heavenly 
secret.  A  little  touch  of  each  must  teach 
you  the  full  meaning  of  the  great  thing 
you  mean  to  write  about,  or  your  work 
will  be  lacking.  There  are  few  of  us  to 
whom  the  great  experiences  do  not  come 
sooner  or  later,  and,  in  the  meantime,  there 
are  the  little  everyday  happenings,  which 
are  full  of  sweetness  and  help,  if  they  are 
only  seen  properly,  to  last  until  the  great 
things  come  to  test  our  utmost  strength, 
to  crush  us  if  we  are  not  strong,  and  to 
make  us  broader,  better  men  and  women 
if  we  withstand  the  blow. 

And  lastly,  remember  this,  that  merit 
is  invariably  recognised.  If  your  stories 
are  worth  printing,  they  will  fight  their 
way  through  "the  abundance  of  material 
on  hand.  "  The  light  of  the  public  square 


332        tEfjreafca  of  &rep  anb 


is  the  unfailing  test,  and  a  good  story  is 
sure  to  be  published  sooner  or  later,  if  a 
fair  amount  of  literary  instinct  is  exercised 
in  sending  it  out.  Meteoric  success  is  not 
desirable.  Slow,  hard,  conscientious  work 
will  surely  win  its  way,  and  those  who  are 
now  near  the  bottom  of  the  ladder  are 
gradually  ascending  to  make  room  for  the 
next  generation  of  story-writers  on  the 
rounds  below. 


Go  IDorotbp 

THERE  'S  a  sleepy  look  in  your  violet  eyes, 
So  the  sails  of  our  ship  we  '11  unfurl, 
And  turn  the  prow  to  the  Land  of  Rest, 
My  dear  little  Dorothy  girl. 

Twilight  is  coming  soon,  little  one, 
The  sheep  have  gone  to  the  fold; 

See !  where  our  white  sails  bend  and  dip 
In  the  sunset  glow  of  gold. 

The  roses  nod  to  the  sound  of  the  waves, 
And  the  bluebells  sweet  are  ringing; 

Do  you  hear  the  music,  Dorothy  dear? 
The  song  that  the  angels  are  singing? 

The  fairies  shall  weave  their  drowsy  spell 
On  the  shadowy  shore  of  the  stream; 

Dear  little  voyager  say  "good-night," 
For  the  birds  are  beginning  to  dream. 

O  white  little  craft,  with  sails  full  spread, 

My  heart  goes  out  with  thee; 
God   keep   thee   strong   with   thy   precious 

freight, 

My  Dorothy — out  at  sea. 
333 


Writina  a  Book 

TJAVING  written  a  few  small  books 
A  which  have  been  published  by  a 
reputable  house,  and  which  have  been 
pleasantly  received  by  both  the  press  and 
the  public,  and  having  just  completed 
another  which  I  devoutly  pray  may  meet 
the  same  fate,  I  feel  that  I  may  henceforth 
deem  myself  an  author. 

I  have  been  considered  such  for  some 
time  among  my  numerous  acquaintances 
ever  since  I  made  my  literary  bow  with  a 
short  story  in  a  literary  magazine,  years 
and  years  ago.  Being  of  the  feminine 
persuasion,  I  am  usually  presented  to 
strangers  as  "an  authoress."  It  is  at 
these  times  that  I  wish  I  were  a  man. 

The  social  side  of  authorship  is  extremely 
interesting.  At  least  once  a  week,  I  am 
asked  how  I  "came  to  write." 

334 


Olrtttng  a  $ooit  335 

This  is  difficult,  for  I  do  not  know. 
When  I  so  reply,  my  questioner  ascer- 
tains by  further  inquiries  where  I  was 
educated  and  how  I  have  been  trained. 
Never  having  been  through  a  "School 
of  Journalism,"  my  answer  is  not  sat- 
isfactory. 

"You  must  read  a  great  deal  in  order  to 
get  all  those  ideas,"  is  frequently  said  to 
me.  I  reply  that  I  do  read  a  great  deal, 
being  naturally  bookish,  but  that  it  is 
the  great  object  of  my  life  to  avoid  get- 
ting ideas  from  books.  To  an  author, 
"Plagiarist"  is  like  the  old  cry  of  "Wolf," 
and  when  an  idea  is  once  assimilated  it 
is  difficult  indeed  to  distinguish  it  from 
one's  own. 

I  am  often  asked  how  long  it  takes  me 
to  write  a  book.  I  am  ashamed  to  tell, 
but  sometimes  the  secret  escapes,  since  I 
am  naturally  truthful,  and  find  it  hard  to 
parry  a  direct  question.  The  actual  time 
of  composition  is  always  greeted  with 
astonishment,  and  I  can  read  the  ques- 
tioner's inference,  that  if  I  can  do  so  much 


336        {£f)teati*  of 


in  so  short  a  time,  how  much  could  I  do 
if  I  actually  worked! 

This  is  always  distasteful,  so  I  hasten 
to  add  that  the  composition  is  really  a 
very  small  part  of  the  real  writing  of  a 
book,  and  that  authors'  methods  differ. 
My  own  practice  is  not  to  begin  to  write 
until  my  material  is  fully  arranged  in  my 
mind,  and  I  often  use  notes  which  I  have 
been  making  for  a  period  of  months. 
Such  a  report  is  seldom  convincing,  how- 
ever, to  my  questioners.  I  am  gradually 
learning,  when  this  inquiry  comes,  to  smile 
inscrutably. 

It  seems  strange  to  many  people  that 
I  do  not  work  all  the  time.  If  I  can  write 
a  short  story  in  two  hours  and  be  paid 
thirty  dollars  for  it,  I  am  an  idiot  indeed  if 
I  do  not  write  at  least  three  in  a  day! 
Ninety  dollars  a  day  might  easily  mount 
up  into  a  very  comfortable  income. 

Still,  there  are  some  who  understand 
that  an  author  cannot  write  continuously 
any  more  than  a  spider  or  a  silkworm  can 
spin  all  the  time.  These  people  ask  me 


ISrtttng  a  $oofe  337 

when,  and  where,  and  how,  I  get  my 
material. 

"Getting  material"  is  supposed  to  be  a 
secret  process,  and  I  am  thought  a  gay 
deceiver  when  I  say  I  make  no  particular 
effort  to  get  it — that  it  comes  in  the  daily 
living — like  the  morning  cream!  I  am 
then  asked  if  I  rely  wholly  upon  "in- 
spiration." I  answer  that  "inspiration" 
doubtless  has  its  value  as  well  as  hard  work, 
and  that  the  author  who  would  derive  all 
possible  benefit  from  the  rare  flashes  of  it 
must  have  the  same  command  of  technique 
that  a  good  workman  has  of  his  tools. 

The  majority  learn  with  surprise  that 
there  is  more  to  a  book  than  is  self-evident. 
It  was  once  my  happy  lot  to  put  this  fact 
into  the  understanding  of  a  lady  from  the 
country. 

With  infinite  pains  I  told  her  of  the 
constant  study  of  words,  illustrated  the 
fine  shades  of  distinction  between  syno- 
nyms, spoke  of  the  different  ways  in 
which  characters  and  events  might  be 
introduced,  and  of  the  subordinate  repeti- 


338        tEfjreafc*  of  <&rep  anb 


tion  of  contrasting  themes.  She  listened 
in  breathless  wonder,  and  then  turned 
to  her  daughter:  "There,  Mame,  "  she 
said,  "I  told  you  there  was  something 
in  it!" 

There  is  nothing  so  pathetic  as  the 
widespread  literary  ambition  among  people 
whose  future  is  utterly  hopeless.  It  is 
sad  enough  for  one  who  has  attained  a 
small  success  to  see  the  heights  which  are 
ever  beyond,  and  it  makes  one  gentle 
indeed  to  those  who  come  seeking  aid. 

One  ambitious  soul  once  asked  me  if  I 
would  teach  her  to  write.  I  replied  that 
I  did  not  know  of  any  way  in  which  it 
could  be  taught,  but  that  I  would  gladly 
help  her  if  I  could.  She  said  she  had 
absolutely  no  imagination,  and  asked  me 
if  that  would  make  any  difference.  I  told 
her  it  was  certainly  an  unfortunate  cir- 
cumstance and  advised  her  to  cultivate 
that  quality  before  she  attempted  exten- 
sive writing.  I  suppose  she  is  still  doing 
it,  for  I  have  not  been  asked  for  further 
assistance. 


(Hinting  a  JSoofe  339 

People  often  inquire  what  qualities  I 
deem  essential  to  literary  success.  Imag- 
ination is,  of  course,  the  first,  observation, 
the  second,  and  ambition,  perseverance 
and  executive  ability  are  indispensable. 
Besides  these  I  would  place  the  sense  of 
humour,  of  proportion,  sympathy,  insight, 
— indeed,  there  is  nothing  admirable  in 
human  nature  which  would  come  amiss 
in  the  equipment  of  a  writer. 

The  necessity  for  the  humourous  sense 
was  recently  brought  home  to  me  most 
forcibly.  A  woman  brought  me  the  manu- 
script of  a  novel  which  she  asked  me  to 
read.  She  felt  that  something  was  wrong 
with  it,  but  she  did  not  know  just  what  it 
was.  She  said  it  needed  "a  few  little 
touches,"  she  thought,  such  as  my  experi- 
ence would  have  fitted  me  to  give,  and 
she  would  be  grateful,  indeed,  if  I  would 
revise  it.  She  added  that,  owing  to  the 
connection  which  I  had  formed  with  my 
publishing  house,  it  would  be  an  easy 
matter  for  me  to  get  it  published,  and 
she  generously  offered  to  divide  the  royal- 


340         {Efjreab*  of  (Step  anb 


ties  with  me  if  I  would  consummate  the 
arrangement! 

I  began  to  read  the  manuscript,  and  had 
not  gone  far  when  I  discovered  that  it 
was  indeed  rare.  The  entire  family  read 
it,  or  portions  of  it,  with  screams  of 
laughter,  and  with  tears  in  their  eyes, 
although  it  was  not  intended  to  be  a 
funny  book  at  all.  To  this  day,  certain 
phrases  from  that  novel  will  upset  any  one 
of  us,  even  at  a  solemn  time. 

Of  course  it  was  badly  written.  Char- 
acters appeared,  talked  for  a  few  pages, 
and  were  never  seen  or  heard  from 
again. 

Long  conversations  were  intruded  which 
had  no  connection  with  such  plot  as  there 
was.  Commonplace  descriptions  of  scen- 
ery, also  useless,  were  frequent.  Many 
a  time  the  thread  of  the  story  was  lost. 
There  were  no  distinguishing  traits  in  any 
one  of  the  characters  —  they  all  talked  very 
much  alike.  But  the  supreme  defect  was 
the  author's  lack  of  humour.  With  all 
seriousness,  she  made  her  people  say  and 


SBrtting  a  |8ook  341 

do  things  which  were  absolutely  ridiculous 
and  not  by  any  means  true  to  life. 

I  think  I  must  have  an  unsuspected  bit 
of  tact  somewhere  for  I  extricated  myself 
from  the  situation,  and  the  woman  is 
still  my  friend.  I  did  not  hurt  her  feelings 
about  her  book,  nor  did  I  send  it  to  my 
publishers  with  a  letter  of  recommendation. 
I  remarked  that  her  central  idea  was  all 
right,  which  was  true,  since  it  was  a  love 
story,  but  that  it  had  not  been  properly 
developed  and  that  she  needed  to  study. 
She  thanked  me  for  my  counsel  and  said 
she  would  rewrite  it.  I  wish  it  might  be 
printed  just  as  it  was,  however,  for  it  is 
indeed  a  sodden  and  mirthless  world  in 
which  we  live  and  move. 

As  the  editors  say  on  the  refusal  blanks, 
41 1  am  always  glad  to  read  manuscripts," 
although,  as  a  rule,  it  makes  an  enemy  for 
me  if  I  try  to  help  the  author  by  criticism, 
when  only  praise  was  expected  or  desired. 

Having  written  some  verse  which  has 
landed  in  respectable  places,  I  am  also 
asked  about  poetry.  Poems  written  in 


342        3H)reab*  ot  <5rcp  anb 


trochaic  metre  with  the  good  old  rhymes, 
"trees  and  breeze,"  "light  and  night," 
soldered  on  at  the  end  of  the  lines,  are 
continually  brought  to  me  for  revision  and 
improvement. 

Once,  for  the  benefit  of  the  literary 
aspirant,  I  brought  out  my  rhyming 
dictionary,  but  I  shall  never  do  it  again. 
He  looked  it  over  carefully,  while  I  ex- 
plained the  advantage  for  the  writer  in 
having  before  him  all  the  available  rhymes, 
so  that  the  least  common  might  be 
quickly  chosen  and  the  verse  made  to 
run  smoothly. 

"Humph!"  he  said;  "it  's  just  the  book. 
Anybody  can  write  poetry  with  one  of  these 
books!" 

My  invaluable  thesaurus  is  chained  to 
my  desk  in  order  that  it  may  not  escape, 
and  I  frequently  have  to  justify  its  exist- 
ence when  aliens  penetrate  my  den. 
"It  fs  no  wonder  you  can  write,"  was  said 
to  me  once.  "Here's  all  the  English 
language  right  on  your  desk,  and  all 
you  Ve  got  to  do  is  to  put  it  together.  " 


a  23oafc  343 


"Yes,"  I  answered  wickedly,  "but  it  's 
all  in  the  dictionary  too." 

Last  week  I  had  a  rare  treat.  I  met  a 
woman  who  had  "never  seen  a  literary 
person  before,  "  and  who  said  "it  was  quite 
a  novelty!"  I  beamed  upon  her,  for  it  is 
very  nice  to  be  a  "novelty,"  and  after  a 
while  we  became  quite  confidential. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  just  how  you 
write,"  she  said,  "so  's  I  can  tell  the  folks 
at  home.  I  'm  going  to  buy  some  of  your 
books  to  give  away." 

Mindful  of  "royalty  to  author,"  I  im- 
mediately became  willing  to  tell  anything 
I  could. 

"Well,  I  want  to  know  how  you  write. 
Do  you  just  sit  down  and  do  it?" 

"Yes,  I  just  sit  down  and  do  it." 

"Do  you  write  any  special  time?" 

"No,  mornings,  usually;  but  any  time 
will  do." 

"What  do  you  write  with  —  a  pen  or  a 
pencil?" 

"Neither,  I  always  use  a  typewriter." 

"Why,  can  you  write  on  a  typewriter?" 


344        <£f)reab*  of  4Srep  ant) 


"Yes,  it  's  much  easier  than  a  pen,  and 
it  keeps  the  ink  off  your  hands.  You 
can  write  with  both  hands  at  once,  you 
know." 

"You  have  to  write  it  all  out  with  a  pen- 
cil, first,  don't  you?" 
'    "No,  I  just  think  into  the  keys." 

"Would  n't  it  be  easier  to  write  it  with 
a  pencil  first  and  then  copy  it?" 

"No,  or  I  'd  do  it  that  way." 

"  Do  you  dress  any  special  way  when  you 
write?" 

"No,  only  I  must  be  neat  and  also  com- 
fortable. I  usually  wear  a  shirt  waist 
and  take  off  my  collar.  Can't  write  with 
a  collar  on,  but  I  must  be  well  groomed 
otherwise.  " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  little 
lady  was  digesting  the  information  which 
she  had  just  received. 

"It  seems  easy  enough,"  she  said.  "I 
should  think  any  one  could  write.  What 
do  you  do  when  it  is  done?  " 

"  Oh,  I  go  all  over  it  and  revise  very 
carefully.  " 


a  $ook  345 


"Why,  do  you  have  to  go  all  over  it, 
after  it  is  done?" 

"Certainly." 

"Then  it  takes  you  longer  than  it  does 
most  people,  does  n't  it?" 

"I  cannot  say  as  to  that.  Everybody 
revises.  " 

"Why,  when  I  write  a  letter,  if  I  go  over 
it  I  always  scratch  out  so  much  that  I 
have  to  do  it  over.  " 

"That's  the  idea,  exactly,"  I  replied. 
"I  go  over  it  until  there  isn't  a  thing  to 
be  scratched  out,  or  a  word  to  be  changed." 

"  But  you  Ve  got  lots  left,  "  she  said, 
enviously.  "When  I  go  over  a  letter 
there  's  hardly  anything  left.  " 

Innumerable  questions  followed  these, 
but  at  last  she  had  her  curiosity  partially 
satisfied  and  turned  away  from  me.  I 
trust,  however,  that  I  shall  some  day  meet 
her  again,  for  she  too  is  "a  novelty!" 

The  mechanical  part  of  a  book  is  a 
source  of  great  wonder  to  the  uninitiated. 
My  galley  proofs  were  once  passed  around 
among  the  guests  at  a  summer  hotel  as  if 


346         Cftreafcs  of  (Srep  anb  05 old 

they  were  some  new  strange  animal. 
They  did  not  understand  page  proofs  nor 
plates,  nor  how  I  could  ever  know  when  it 
was  right. 

The  cover  is  frequently  commented 
upon  as  a  thing  of  beauty  (which  with  my 
publishers  it  always  is) ,  and  I  am  asked  if 
I  did  it.  I  am  always  sorry  that  I  do  not 
know  enough  to  do  covers,  so  I  have  to 
explain  that  an  artist  does  that — that  I 
often  do  not  see  it  until  the  first  copies 
come  from  the  bindery,  and  that  I  am  of 
such  small  importance  that  I  am  not  often 
consulted  in  relation  to  the  matter — being 
merely  the  poor  worm  who  wrote  the  book. 

There  are  many  people  who  seem  to  be 
afraid  to  talk  before  me  lest  their  pearly 
utterances  be  transformed  into  copy. 
Time  and  time  again  I  have  heard  this: 
"We  must  be  very  careful  what  we  say 
now,  or  Miss will  put  us  into  a  book!" 

People  are  strangely  literal.  An  author 
gets  no  credit  whatever  for  inventive 
faculty — his  characters  and  stories  are 
supposedly  real  people  and  real  things. 


linttng  a  JSook  347 

I  am  asked  how  I  came  to  know  so  much 
about  such  and  such  a  thing.  I  once  wrote 
a  love  story  with  an  unhappy  ending  and  it 
was  at  once  assumed  that  I  had  been  dis- 
appointed in  love! 

When  my  first  book  came  from  the  press 
I  was  pointed  out  at  a  reception  as  the 
author  of  it.  The  man  surveyed  me  long 
and  carefully,  then  he  announced:  "That 's 
a  mistake.  That  girl  never  wrote  that 
book.  She 's  too  frivolous  and  empty 
headed!" 

I  have  tried,  until  I  am  discouraged, 
to  make  people  understand  that  a  book 
does  not  have  to  be  a  verity  in  order  to 
be  true — that  a  story  must  be  possible, 
instead  of  actual,  and  that  actual  circum- 
stances may  be  too  unreal  for  literature. 

There  are  always  people  who  will  ask 
that  things,  even  books,  may  be  written 
especially  for  them.  People  often  want 
to  tell  me  a  story  and  let  me  write  it  up  into 
a  nice  book  and  divide  the  royalties  with 
them!  During  a  summer  at  the  coast,  I 
had  endless  opportunities  to  write  bio- 


348         {£i}reab£  of  <8rep  anto 


graphical  sketches  of  the  guests  at  the 
hotel-  -to  write  a  story  and  put  them  all 
into  it,  or  to  write  something  about  any- 
thing, that  they  might  have  as  "a  sou- 
venir!" As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  were 
only  two  people  at  the  hotel  who  could 
have  been  of  any  possible  use  as  copy,  and 
one  of  these  was  a  woman  to  whom  only 
Mr.  Stockton  could  have  done  justice. 

It  was  hard  to  be  always  good-natured, 
but  I  lost  my  temper  only  once.  We  stayed 
late  into  the  autumn  and  were  rewarded 
by  a  magnificent  storm.  I  put  on  my 
bathing  suit  and  my  mackintosh  and  went 
down  to  the  beach,  in  the  teeth  of  a  north- 
west gale.  Little  needles  of  sand  were 
blown  in  my  face,  and  I  lost  my  cap,  but  it 
was  well  worth  the  effort.  For  over  an 
hour  we  stood  on  the  desolate  beach, 
sheltered  from  the  sand  b}^  a  bath  house. 
I  had  never  seen  anything  so  grand  —  it 
was  far  beyond  words.  At  last  it  grew 
dark  and  I  was  soaked  through  and  stilt 
with  the  cold.  So  I  went  back  to  the 
hotel,  my  soul  struck  dumb  by  the  might 


a  JSoofe  349 


and  glory  of  the  sea.  My  heart  was  too 
full  to  speak.  The  majestic  chords  were 
still  thundering  in  my  ears;  that  tempest- 
tossed  ocean  was  still  before  my  eyes.  On 
my  way  upstairs  I  met  a  woman  whom  I 
had  formerly  liked. 

"Oh,  Miss  -  ,  I  want  you  to  write  me 
a  description  of  that  storm!"  I  brushed 
past  her,  rudely,  I  fear,  and  she  caught 
hold  of  the  cape  of  my  mackintosh  with 
elephantine  playfulness.  "You  can't  go,  " 
she  said  coquettishly,  "until  you  promise 
to  write  me  a  description  of  that  storm!" 

"  I  can't  write  it,"  I  said  coldly.  "  Please 
let  me  go.  " 

"You  've  got  to  write  it,  "  she  returned. 
"I  know  you  can,  and  I  won't  let  you  go 
until  you  promise  me.  " 

I  wrenched  myself  away  from  her,  white 
with  wrath,  and  got  to  my  room  before  she 
did,  though  she  was  still  pursuing  me.  I 
locked  my  door  and  had  a  hard  fight  for 
my  self-control.  From  the  beach  came  the 
distant  boom  of  the  surf,  mingled  with  the 
liquid  melody  of  the  returning  breakers. 


350         {Ebreafeg  of  <&tep  anb 


Later,  just  as  I  had  finished  dressing  for 
dinner,  there  was  a  tap  at  my  door.  My 
friend  (?)  stood  there  beaming.  "Have 
you  got  it  done?  You  know  you  promised 
to  write  me  a  description  of  that  storm!" 

She  remained  only  three  days  longer,  and 
I  stayed  away  from  her  as  much  as  possible, 
but  occasional  meetings  were  inevitable. 
When  the  gladsome  time  of  parting  came, 
she  hung  about  my  neck. 

"I  want  you  to  come  and  see  me,"  she 
said.  "You  know  you  haven't  done 
what  you  said  you  would.  Don't  you 
forget  to  write  me  a  description  of  that 
storm!" 

My  business  arrangements  with  my 
publishers  are  seemingly  a  matter  of  public 
interest.  I  am  asked  how  much  it  costs  to 
print  a  book  the  size  of  mine.  People  are 
surprised  to  find  that  I  do  not  pay  the 
expenses  and  that  I  have  n't  the  least  idea 
of  what  it  costs. 

Then  they  want  to  know  if  the  publisher 
buys  the  book  of  me.  I  explain  that  this 
is  sometimes  done,  but  that  I  myself  am 


(Hinting  a  $oo&  351 

paid  upon  the  royalty  basis, per  cent. 

on  the  list  price  of  every  copy  sold.  This 
seems  painfully  small  to  the  dear  public, 
but  it  is  comparatively  easy  to  demon- 
strate that  the  royalty  on  five  or  six 
thousand  copies  is  quite  worth  while. 

They  shortly  come  to  the  conclusion, 
however,  that  the  publishers  make  more 
money  than  I  do,  and  that  seems  to  them 
to  be  very  unfair.  They  suggest  that  if  I 
published  it  myself,  I  should  make  a  great 
deal  more  money! 

It  is  difficult  for  them  to  understand  that 
writing  books  and  selling  books  are  two 
very  different  propositions — that  I  don't 
know  enough  to  sell  books,  and  that  the 
imprint  of  a  reputable  house  upon  the 
title-page  is  worth  a  great  deal  to  any 
author. 

"Well,"  a  man  once  said  to  me,  "how 
much  did  you  make  out  of  your  book  this 
year?" 

I  explained  that  the  percentage  royalty 
basis  was  f eally  an  equal  division  of  the 
profits,  everything  considered,  and  that  all 


352         GHjreafc*  of 


the  financial  risk  was  on  one  side.  I 
named  my  few  hundreds,  with  which  I 
was  very  well  satisfied.  He  absorbed 
himself  in  a  calculation  on  the  back  of  an 
envelope. 

"I  figure  out,"  said  he,  at  length,  "that 
they  must  have  made  at  least  a  third  more 
than  you  did.  That  is  n't  fair!" 

My  ire  arose.  "It  is  perfectly  fair,"  I 
replied.  "Paper  is  cheap,  I  know,  but 
composition  is  n't,  and  advertising  is  n't. 
They  are  welcome  to  every  penny  .they 
can  make  out  of  my  books.  I  'd  be  glad 
to  have  them  make  twice  as  much  as  they 
do  now,  even  if  my  own  income  remained 
the  same.  " 

At  this  point,  I  became  telepathically 
aware  that  I  was  considered  crazy,  so  I 
changed  the  subject. 

I  am  often  asked  how  I  happened  to 
meet  my  publishers  and  "get  in  with 
them,  "  and  as  a  very  great  favour  to  me, 
and  to  them,  I  am  offered  the  privilege  of 
sending  them  some  "splendid  novel  which 
was  written  by  a  friend"  of  somebody  — 


BHrittng  a  JSook  353 

as  they  know  me,  "they  have  decided  to 
let  my  publishers  have  the  book!" 

They  are  surprised  to  hear  me  say  that 
I  have  never  met  any  member  of  the  firm, 
though  I  was  in  the  same  city  with  them 
for  over  a  year.  More  than  this,  there  is 
nothing  on  earth,  except  a  green  worm, 
which  would  scare  me  so  much  as  a  sum- 
mons to  that  publishing  house. 

I  have  walked  by  in  fear  and  trembling. 
I  have  seen  a  huge  pile  of  my  books  in  the 
window,  and  on  the  bulletin  board  a  poster 
which  bore  my  name  in  conspicuous 
letters,  as  if  I  had  been  cured  of  something. 
But  I  should  no  more  dare  to  go  into  that 
office  than  I  should  venture  to  call  upon 
the  wife  of  the  President  with  a  shawl  over 
my  head,  and  my  fancy  work  tucked  under 
my  arm. 

This  is  incomprehensible  to  the  unin- 
itiated. The  publishers  have  ever  been 
most  courteous  and  kind.  They  are 
people  with  whom  it  is  a  pleasure  to  have 
any  sort  of  business  dealings,  but  we  are 
not  bosom  friends — and  I  very  much  fear 


354        fc&reato  of  <£rep  anto 


that  they  do  not  care  to  become  chummy 
with  me. 

There  may  be  some  authors  who  have 
taken  nerve  tonics  and  are  not  afraid  to 
meet  an  editor  or  publisher.  I  have  even 
read  of  some  who  will  walk  cheerfully  into 
an  editorial  sanctum  —  but  I  've  never 
seen  a  sanctum,  nor  an  editor,  nor  a 
publisher.  I  don't  even  write  to  an  editor 
when  I  send  him  a  piece  —  just  put  in  a 
stamp.  He  usually  knows  what  to  do  with 
it. 

Fame,  or  long  experience,  may  enable 
authors  to  meet  the  arbiters  of  their 
destiny  without  becoming  frightened,  but 
I  have  had  brief  experience,  and  still  less 
fame.  The  admirable  qualities  of  the 
pachyderm  may  have  been  bestowed  upon 
some  authors  —  but  not  on  this  one. 


HDan  Bebinb  tbe  (Bun 


NOW  let  the  eagle  flap  his  wings 
And  let  the  cannon  roar, 
For  while  the  conquering  bullet  sings 

We  pledge  the  commodore. 
First  battle  of  a  righteous  war 

Right  royally  he  won, 
But  here  's  a  health  to  the  jolly  tar- 
To  the  man  behind  the  gun! 


Now  praise  be  to  the  flag-ship's  spars — 

To  the  captain  in  command, 
And  honour  to  the  Stripes  and  Stars 

For  whose  defence  they  stand; 
And  for  the  pilot  at  his  wheel 

Let  the  streams  of  red  wine  run, 
But  here 's  a  health  to  the  man  of  steel — 

The  man  behind  the  gun! 


Here  's  to  the  man  who  does  not  swerve 

In  the  face  of  any  foe ; 
Here 's  to  the  man  of  iron  nerve, 

On  deck  and  down  below; 
355 


356         threat)*  of  <@rep  anti  <&olti 

Here 's  to  the  man  whose  heart  is  glad 
When  the  battle  has  begun; 

Here 's  to  the  health  of  that  daring  lad- 
To  the  man  behind  the  gun! 


Now  let  the  Stars  and  Stripes  float  high 

And  let  the  eagle  soar; 
Until  the  echoes  make  reply 

We  pledge  the  commodore. 
Here 's  to  the  chief  and  here  's  to  war, 

And  here 's  to  the  fleet  that  won, 
And  here  's  a  health  to  the  jolly  tar — 

To  the  man  behind  the  gun! 


Quaint  ©l£>  Christmas  Customs 

/COMPARED  with  the  celebrations  of 
>*^  our  ancestors,  the  modern  Christ- 
mas becomes  a  very  hurried  thing.  The 
rush  of  the  twentieth  century  forbids 
twelve  days  of  celebration,  or  even  two. 
Paterfamilias  considers  himself  very  in- 
dulgent if  he  gives  two  nights  and  a  day 
to  the  annual  festival,  because,  forsooth, 
"the  office  needs  him!" 

One  by  one  the  quaint  old  customs  have 
vanished.  We  still  have  the  Christmas 
tree,  evergreens  in  our  houses  and  churches, 
and  the  yawning  stocking  still  waits  in 
many  homes  for  the  good  St.  Nicholas. 

But  what  is  poor  Santa  Claus  to  do 
when  the  chimney  leads  to  the  furnace? 
And  what  of  the  city  apartment,  which 
boasts  a  radiator  and  gas  grate,  but  no 
chimney?  The  myth  evidently  needs  re- 

357 


358        tEtyreab*  of  <&rep  anb 


construction  to  meet  the  times  in  which  we 
live,  and  perhaps  we  shall  soon  see  pictures 
of  Santa  Claus  arriving  in  an  automobile, 
and  taking  the  elevator  to  the  ninth  floor, 
flat  B,  where  a  single  childish  stocking  is 
hung  upon  the  radiator. 

Nearly  all  of  the  Christmas  observances 
began  in  ancient  Rome.  The  primitive 
Italians  were  wont  to  celebrate  the  winter 
solstice  and  call  it  the  feast  of  Saturn. 
Thus  Saturnalia  came  to  mean  almost 
any  kind  of  celebration  which  came  in  the 
wake  of  conquest,  and  these  ceremonies 
being  engrafted  upon  Anglo-Saxon  customs 
assumed  a  religious  significance. 

The  pretty  maid  who  hesitates  and 
blushes  beneath  the  overhanging  branch 
of  mistletoe,  never  stops  to  think  of  the 
grim  festival  with  which  the  Druids 
celebrated  its  gathering. 

In  their  mythology  the  plant  was 
regarded  with  the  utmost  reverence, 
especially  when  found  growing  upon 
an  oak. 

At  the  time  of  the  winter  solstice,  the 


(Quaint  Ol'Q  Christmas;  Customs     359 

ancient  Britons,  accompanied  by  their 
priests,  the  Druids,  went  out  with  great 
pomp  and  rejoicing  to  gather  the  mistle- 
toe, which  was  believed  to  possess  great 
curative  powers.  These  processions  were 
usually  by  night,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  flaring  torches  and  the  solemn  chanting 
of  the  people.  When  an  oak  was  reached 
on  which  the  parasite  grew,  the  company 
paused. 

Two  white  bulls  were  bound  to  the  tree 
and  the  chief  Druid,  clothed  in  white  to 
signify  purity,  climbed,  more  or  less  grace- 
fully, to  the  plant.  It  was  severed  from 
the  oak,  and  another  priest,  standing  below, 
caught  it  in  the  folds  of  his  robe.  The 
bulls  were  then  sacrificed,  and  often,  alas, 
human  victims  also.  The  mistletoe  thus 
gathered  was  divided  into  small  portions 
and  distributed  among  the  people.  The 
tiny  sprays  were  fastened  above  the  doors 
of  the  houses,  as  propitiation  to  the  sylvan 
deities  during  the  cold  season. 

These  rites  were  retained  throughout 
the  Roman  occupation  of  Great  Britain, 


360        QHjreab*  of  <©rep  anb 


and  for  some  time  afterward,  under  the 
sovereignty  of  the  Jutes,  the  Saxons,  and 
the  Angles. 

In  Scandinavian  mythology  there  is  a 
beautiful  legend  of  the  mistletoe.  Balder, 
the  god  of  poetry,  the  son  of  Odin  and 
Friga,  one  day  told  his  mother  that  he 
had  dreamed  his  death  was  near  at  hand. 
Much  alarmed,  the  mother  invoked  all  the 
powers  of  nature  —  earth,  air,  water,  fire, 
animals  and  plants,  and^  obtained  from 
them  a  solemn  oath  that  they  would  do 
her  son  no  harm. 

Then  Balder  fearlessly  took  his  place 
in  the  combats  of  the  gods  and  fought 
unharmed  while  showers  of  arrows  were 
falling  all  about  him. 

His  enemy,  Loake,  determined  to  dis- 
cover the  secret  of  his  invulnerability,  and, 
disguising  himself  as  an  old  woman,  went 
to  the  mother  with  a  question  of  the  reason 
of  his  immunity.  Friga  answered  that  she 
had  made  a  charm  and  invoked  all  nature 
to  keep  from  injuring  her  son. 

"Indeed,"  said  the  old  woman,  "and 


(Quaint  £>lb  Christmas  Customs     361 

did  you  ask  all  the  animals  and  plants? 
There  are  so  many,  it  seems  impossible." 

"All  but  one,"  answered  Friga  proudly; 
"all  but  a  little  insignificant  plant  which 
grows  upon  the  bark  of  the  oak.  This  I 
did  not  think  of  invoking,  since  so  small  a 
thing  could  do  no  harm. " 

Much  delighted,  Loake  went  away  and 
gathered  mistletoe.  Then  he  entered  the 
assembly  of  the  gods  and  made  his  way  to 
the  blind  Heda. 

"Why  do  you  not  shoot  with  the  arrows 
at  Balder?"  asked  Loake. 

"Alas,"  replied  Heda,  "I  am  blind  and 
have  no  arms. " 

Loake  then  gave  him  an  arrow  tipped 
with  mistletoe  and  said:  "Balder  is  before 
thee."  Heda  shot  and  Balder  fell,  pierced 
through  the  heart. 

In  its  natural  state,  the  plant  is  believed 
to  be  propagated  by  the  missel- thrush, 
which  feeds  upon  its  berries,  but  under 
favourable  climatic  conditions  one  may 
raise  one's  own  mistletoe  by  bruising  the 
berries  on  the  bark  of  fruit  trees,  where 


362        {Efrreabg  of  <Hrcp  anfc 


they  take  root  readily.  It  must  be  re- 
membered, however,  that  the  plant  is  a 
true  parasite  and  will  eventually  kill 
whatever  tree  gives  it  nourishment. 

Kissing  under  the  mistletoe  was  also  a 
custom  of  the  Druids,  and  in  those  un- 
civilised days  men  kissed  each  other. 
For  each  kiss,  a  single  white  berry  was 
plucked  from  the  spray,  and  kept  as  a 
souvenir  by  the  one  who  was  kissed. 

The  burning  of  the  Yule  log  was  an 
ancient  Christmas  ceremony  borrowed 
from  the  early  Scandinavians.  At  their 
feast  of  Juul  (pronounced  Yuul),  at  the 
time  of  the  winter  solstice,  they  were  wont 
to  kindle  huge  bonfires  in  honour  of  their 
god  Thor.  The  custom  soon  made  its  way 
to  England  where  it  is  still  in  vogue  in 
many  parts  of  the  country. 

One  may  imagine  an  ancient  feudal 
castle,  heavily  fortified,  standing  in  splen- 
did isolation  upon  a  snowy  hill,  on  that 
night  of  all  others  when  war  was  forgotten 
and  peace  proclaimed.  Drawn  by  six 
horses,  the  great  Yule  log  was  brought  into 


©uatnt  ©III  Cfjrtetmaa  Custom*     363 

the  hall  and  rolled  into  the  vast  fireplace, 
where  it  was  lighted  with  the  charred 
remnants  of  last  year's  Yule  log,  religiously 
kept  in  some  secure  place  as  a  charm 
against  fire. 

As  the  flames  seize  upon  the  oak  and 
the  light  gleams  from  the  castle  windows, 
a  lusty  procession  of  wayfarers  passes 
through,  each  one  raising  his  hat  as  he 
passes  the  fire  which  burns  all  the  evil  out 
of  the  hearts  of  men,  and  up  to  the  rafters 
there  rings  a  stern  old  Saxon  chant. 

When  the  song  was  finished,  the  steaming 
wassail  bowl  was  brought  out,  and  all  the 
company  drank  to  a  better  understanding. 

Up  to  the  time  of  Henry  VI,  and  even 
afterward,  the  Yule  log  was  greeted  with 
bards  and  minstrelsy.  If  a  squinting 
person  came  into  the  hall  while  the  log 
was  burning,  it  was  sure  to  bring  bad  luck. 
The  appearance  of  a  barefooted  man  was 
worse,  and  a  flat-footed  woman  was  the 
worst  of  all. 

As  an  accompaniment  to  the  Yule  log, 
a  monstrous  Christmas  candle  was  burned 


364        {Efcrcaba  of  <Srep  anb 


on  the  table  at  supper;  even  now  in  St. 
John's  College  at  Oxford,  there  is  an  old 
candle  socket  of  stone,  ornamented  with 
the  figure  of  a  lamb.  What  generations 
of  gay  students  must  have  sat  around  that 
kindly  light  when  Christmas  came  to 
Oxford! 

Snap-dragon  was  a  favourite  Christmas 
sport  at  this  time.  Several  raisins  were 
put  into  a  large  shallow  bowl  and  thor- 
oughly saturated  with  brandy.  All  other 
lights  were  extinguished  and  the  brandy 
ignited.  By  turns  each  one  of  the  con- 
pany  tried  to  snatch  a  raisin  out  of  the 
flames,  singing  meanwhile. 

In  Devonshire,  they  burn  great  bundles 
of  ash  sticks,  while  master  and  servants 
sit  together,  for  once  on  terms  of  perfect 
equality,  and  drink  spiced  ale,  and  the 
season  is  one  of  great  rejoicing. 

Another  custom  in  Devonshire  is  for 
the  farmer,  his  family,  and  friends,  to  par- 
take of  hot  cake  and  cider,  and  afterward 
go  to  the  orchard  and  place  a  cake  cere- 
moniously in  the  fork  of  a  big  tree,  when 


(Quaint  Oil)  Cftrtfitma*  Customs     365 

cider  is  poured  over  it  while  the  men  fire 
off  pistols  and  the  women  sing. 

A  similar  libation,  but  of  spiced  ale,  used 
to  be  sprinkled  through  the  orchards  and 
meadows  of  Norfolk.  Midnight  of  Christ- 
mas was  the  time  usually  chosen  for  the 
ceremony. 

In  Devon  and  Cornwall,  a  belief  is  cur- 
rent that,  at  midnight  on  Christmas  Eve, 
the  cattle  kneel  in  their  stalls  in  honour 
of  the  Saviour,  as  legend  claims  they  did  in 
Bethlehem. 

In  Wales,  they  carry  about  at  Christmas 
time  a  horse's  skull  gaily  adorned  with 
ribbons,  and  supported  on  a  pole  by  a  man 
who  is  wholly  concealed  by  a  white  cloth. 
There  is  a  clever  contrivance  for  opening 
and  shutting  the  jaws,  and  this  strange 
creature  pursues  and  bites  all  who  come 
near  it. 

The  figure  is  usually  accompanied  by  a 
party  of  men  and  boys  grotesquely  dressed, 
who,  on  reaching  a  house,  sing  some  verses, 
often  extemporaneous,  demanding  admit- 
tance, and  are  answered  in  the  same  fashion 


366        ^fjreab*  of  <&rep  anti 


by  those  within  until  rhymes  have  given 
out  on  one  side  or  the  other. 
<•"  In  Scotland,  he  who  first  opens  the  door 
on  Christmas  Day  expects  more  good  luck 
than  will  fall  to  the  lot  of  other  members 
of  the  family  during  the  year,  because,  as 
the  saying  goes,  he  lets  in  Yule. 

In  Germany,  Christmas  Eve  is  the 
children's  night,  and  there  is  a  tree  and 
presents.  England  and  America  appear 
to  have  borrowed  the  Christmas  tree  from 
Germany,  where  the  custom  is  ancient 
and  very  generally  followed. 

In  the  smaller  towns  and  villages  in 
northern  Germany,  the  presents  are  sent 
by  all  the  parents  to  some  one  fellow  who, 
in  high  buskins,  white  robe,  mask,  and 
flaxen  wig,  personates  the  servant,  Rupert. 
On  Christmas  night  he  goes  around  to  every 
house,  and  says  that  his  master  sent  him. 
The  parents  and  older  children  receive 
him  with  pomp  and  reverence,  while  the 
younger  ones  are  often  badly  frightened. 

He  asks  for  the  children,  and  then  de- 
mands of  their  parents  a  report  of  their 


(Suatnt  (Dili  Christmas;  Customs     367 

conduct  during  the  past  year.  The  good 
children  are  rewarded  with  sugar-plums 
and  other  things,  while  for  the  bad  ones  a 
rod  is  given  to  the  parents  with  instruc- 
tions to  use  it  freely  during  the  coming 
year. 

In  those  parts  of  Pennsylvania  where 
there  are  many  German  settlers,  the  little 
sinners  often  find  birchen  rods  suggest- 
ively placed  in  their  stockings  on  Christ- 
mas morning. 

In  Poland,  the  Christmas  gifts  are  hidden, 
and  the  members  of  the  family  search  for 
them. 

In  Sweden  and  Norway,  the  house  is 
thoroughly  cleaned,  and  juniper  or  fir 
branches  are  spread  over  the  floor.  Then 
each  member  of  the  family  goes  in  turn  to 
the  bake  house,  or  outer  shed,  where  he 
takes  his  annual  bath. 

But  it  is  back  to  Old  England,  after  all, 
that  we  look  for  the  merriest  Christmas. 
For  two  or  three  weeks  beforehand,  men 
and  boys  of  the  poorer  class,  who  were 
called  "waits,"  sang  Christmas  carols 


368         iEtyrealig  of  (Step  anfc 


under  every  window.  Until  quite  recently 
these  carols  were  sung  all  through  England, 
and  others  of  similar  import  were  heard  in 
France  and  Italy. 

The  English  are  said  to  "take  their 
pleasures  sadly,"  but  in  the  matter  of 
Christmas  they  can  "give  us  cards  and 
spades  and  still  win."  Parties  of  Christ- 
mas drummers  used  to  go  around  to  the 
different  houses,  grotesquely  attired,  and 
play  all  sorts  of  tricks.  The  actors  were 
chiefly  boys,  and  the  parish  beadle  always 
went  along  to  insure  order. 

The  Christmas  dinner  of  Old  England 
was  a  thing  capable  of  giving  the  whole 
nation  dyspepsia  if  they  indulged  freely. 

The  main  dish  was  a  boar's  head,  roasted 
to  a  turn,  and  preceded  by  trumpets  and 
minstrelsy.  Mustard  was  indispensable 
to  this  dish. 

Next  came  a  peacock,  skinned  and 
roasted.  The  beak  was  gilded,  and  some- 
times a  bit  of  cotton,  well  soaked  in  spirits, 
was  put  into  his  mouth,  and  when  he  was 
brought  to  the  table  this  was  ignited,  so 


©uaint  ©Ifc  Cijmtma*  Custom*     369 

that  the  bird  was  literally  spouting  fire. 
He  was  stuffed  with  spices,  basted  with 
yolks  of  eggs,  and  served  with  plenty  of 
gravy. 

Geese,  capons,  pheasants,  carps'  tongues, 
frumenty,  and  mince,  or  "shred"  pies, 
made  up  the  balance  of  the  feast. 

The  chief  functionary  of  Christmas  was 
called  "The  Lord  of  Misrule. " 

In  the  house  of  king  and  nobleman  he 
held  full  sway  for  twelve  days.  His 
badge  was  a  fool's  bauble  and  he  was 
always  attended  by  a  page,  both  of  them 
being  masked.  So  many  pranks  were 
played,  and  so  much  mischief  perpetrated 
which  was  far  from  being  amusing,  that 
an  edict  was  eventually  issued  against 
this  form  of  liberty,  not  to  say  license. 

The  Lord  of  Misrule  was  especially 
reviled  by  the  Puritans,  one  of  whom  set 
him  down  as  "a  grande  captain  of  mis- 
chief e."  One  may  easily  imagine  that 
this  stern  old  gentleman  had  been  ducked 
by  a  party  of  revellers  following  in  the 
wake  of  the  lawless  "Captaine"  because 


370        ^ffreafc*  of  (Step  anto 


he   had    refused    to    contribute   to    their 
entertainment. 

We  need  not  lament  the  passing  of  Christ- 
mas pageantry,  if  the  spirit  of  the  festival 
remains.  Through  the  centuries  that  have 
passed  since  the  first  Christmas,  the  spirit 
of  it  has  wandered  in  and  out  like  a  golden 
thread  in  a  dull  tapestry,  sometimes  hidden, 
but  never  wholly  lost.  It  behooves  us  to 
keep  well  and  reverently  such  Christmas  as 
we  have,  else  we  shall  share  old  Ben  Jon- 
son's  lament  in  The  Mask  of  Father  Christ- 
mas, which  was  presented  before  the  English 
Court  nearly  two  hundred  years  ago  : 

"  Any  man  or  woman  .  .  .  that  can  give 
any  knowledge,  or  tell  any  tidings  of  an  old, 
very  old,  grey  haired  gentleman  called  Christ- 
mas, who  was  wont  to  be  a  very  familiar 
ghest,  and  visit  all  sorts  of  people  both  pore 
and  rich,  and  used  to  appear  in  glittering 
gold,  silk  and  silver  in  the  court,  and  in  all 
shapes  in  the  theatre  in  Whitehall,  and  had 
singing,  feasts  and  jolitie  in  all  places,  both 
citie  and  countrie  for  his  coming  —  whosoever 
can  tel  what  is  become  of  him,  or  where  he 
may  be  found,  let  them  bring  him  back  again 
into  England." 


Consecration 


spire  and  lofty  architrave, 
Nor  priestly  rite  and  humble  reverence, 
Nor  costly  fires  of  myrrh  and  frankincense 
May  give  the  consecration  that  we  crave; 
Upon  the  shore  where  tides  forever  lave 
With  grateful  coolness  on  the  fevered  sense; 
Where  passion  grows  to  silence,  rapt,  intense, 
There  waits  the  chrismal  fountain  of  the  wave. 

By  rock-hewn  altars  where  is  said  no  word, 
Save  by  the  deep  that  calleth  unto  deep, 
While  organ  tones  of  sea  resound  above; 
The  truth  of  truths  our  inmost  souls  have 

heard, 

And  in  our  hearts  communion  wine  we  keep, 
For   He    Himself   hath   said   it—"   God  is 

Love!" 


371 


HUH  IB"""  _     — . 

A    000123052 


